Glitch
by quothme
Summary: Maybe there really is a glitch in Bella's brain. After all, she knows he's out there. She knows he's been watching her ever since she can remember. She's *not* crazy. Why won't anyone believe her? Dark humor a la Face Punch.
1. Shifting sand

**-| Glitch |-**

**Summary:** Maybe there really is a glitch in Bella's brain. After all, she knows he's out there. She knows he's been watching her ever since she can remember. She's *not* crazy. Why won't anyone believe her? Dark humor.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Twilight; it owns me. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the properties of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

See the **promo video** for Glitch here: www . youtube . com / watch?v=xSBnDSm1w_o (remove the spaces)

* * *

Bella said: "Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain." (_Twilight_, page 11)

Quothme thought: Maybe there is, Bella. Maybe there is.

And this story was born.

* * *

**Prologue**

I stand in the middle of a forest far from home, lost and alone, screaming at the top of my lungs.

With my face lifted to an overcast sky only partially visible through grasping tree limbs, I scream and scream variations on a theme. It goes something like this:

"I know you're out there! I _know _you are. I know. Please show yourself."

Please.

I scream for a while about the fact that I know he can hear me. I scream about the fact that I'm utterly lost and that, if he doesn't help me, I'm not going to be able to find my way home. I scream until my vocal chords are a raspy, bloody mess and I'm coughing up globules of blood. I scream until I'm sure I'm driving myself crazy—if I'm not already.

Despite what my parents think, despite the long stream of psychiatrists and their theories that I suffer from this, that, and the other—you name it—they are all wrong.

I _know_ it.

I know _him_.

I _know_ he's out there. I _know_ he's been watching me my whole life, ever since I can remember. I _know_ he's the reason why the woods around me have gone completely still and silent. Why the birds have stopped chirping and the squirrels have stopped scolding and the bunnies have stopped burrowing.

I'm _not_ crazy.

And I _will_ prove it.

But for now, I just raise my head and scream.

**

* * *

**

Chapter 1: Shifting sand

I'm about to have one of those moments.

You know, one of those moments when you realize that something you think you know, something you've believed in your entire life, is not exactly true. You've never thought to question this belief, as every sign points to you being right, so you've just gone with it.

Sometimes, it's a minor thing. Maybe you've regularly mispronounced the word _façade_. Or you've thought this whole time that the Pledge of Allegiance actually says, "…and to the republic where witches dance." Or that China is part of the Middle East. When someone notices your moment, you get a weird look and a laugh. A surreptitious Google search later, you're left with a lingering feeling of stupidity.

Sometimes, the moment is more…momentous. Like finding out you're adopted. Or that your parents, who you've never even seen raise their voices to each other, are getting a divorce. Or that no, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus.

These moments are harder to recover from. In these moments, you feel betrayed, angry, disillusioned with life. Google's customary quick fix cannot fix this. You haven't merely misunderstood the words of a garbled song; someone has purposefully misled you. Perhaps even _lied_ to your face.

But you do recover. You recover because millions of little kids across the globe recover from learning the truth behind the Tooth Fairy. You recover because you can talk to your friends about how they got through their parents' divorce. You recover because other people before you have recovered, so why can't you?

This is my moment. The moment when I realize that something I've believed in my entire life is completely, horribly wrong.

And I'm not sure if I will ever recover.

* * *

The genesis of my moment is an ordinary summer's day in Forks—75 degrees and cloudy with a 99.9% chance of rain. Indoors forecast similarly includes the usual: sitting in the upstairs bedroom of my father's house, doing the same thing I do every day.

Try to take over the world.

I kid; I'm reading.

I lack the imagination to do anything as interesting with my free time as plan nefarious plots for world domination. Instead, I immerse myself in others' imaginations.

I'm your ordinary girl—ordinary brown hair, ordinary slender-yet-soft build, ordinary size seven feet. And the ordinary cascades from there through all facets of my life. I live in an ordinary small town with my ordinary father in our ordinary white house. I like reading books about romance, hate math and science, and am ambivalent toward sports.

And my favorite ice cream flavor is vanilla.

I even have your ordinary sense of morality. I've always considered myself an honest person. I don't cheat on tests. I don't let other people cheat off me on tests. I report Lauren whenever I notice _her_ cheating on tests. I've never pocketed so much as a piece of gum without paying for it.

And, most importantly, I don't lie.

Ever.

That's why, after Charlie calls me downstairs for pizza, I answer him honestly when he asks me to whom I've been speaking up in my room.

"Oh, just Edward," I say.

Charlie looks at me.

I continue eating my pizza.

"Edward who?"

"It's just Edward, actually."

"From school?"

"No." I look at Charlie oddly. "He doesn't go to my school."

It occurs to me right then that Charlie and I have never talked about Edward before. It hasn't really come up. I mean, I always assumed it was a given that he knew about Edward, but we've never expressly discussed him.

Charlie goes back to eating his pizza, and I think the conversation is over.

I couldn't be more wrong.

Later that evening, I go downstairs for my nightly drink of water before bed. I stand at the sink for a long moment before my brain's slow-moving filter at last informs me that something's different. The murmur of voices that I'm hearing is not, in fact, from the TV.

Because the TV isn't on.

The living room is currently dark and murky, and the murmur that I'm hearing is Charlie talking to someone on the phone.

I assume.

I have to make an assumption because Charlie usually talks on the phone sitting either in his leather recliner or at the dining room table. He'd installed one of those extra-long spirally cords on the wall phone in the kitchen so that it would stretch wherever he needs it to go.

Although the wall phone is off its hook, Charlie isn't sitting in any of his usual perches. I super-sleuth the cord around the corner and see it disappear into the seam of the closed front door. Charlie is apparently talking on the phone on the front porch, of all places.

I shuffle up to the door, the better to hear Charlie's muffled voice. The conversation seems to be winding down, and his side is going like this:

"…just wanted to make sure. She tells you things."

The person on the other end seems to talk for a long time. The person seems to be providing a lot of details. Perhaps asking a lot of rhetorical questions.

"Okay, I will," is all Charlie says in response. "Talk to you soon."

Suddenly, the front door flies open, and Charlie and I stand staring at each other across the foyer.

"What did Mom want?" I say, sipping my glass of water. I have a fifty-fifty chance of correctly guessing the identity of the caller. Charlie talks to two people—Renee and Billy. And I don't tell Billy things.

"I, uh, called her. Just a little matter we needed to discuss."

"Okay," I say and go back into the kitchen to tip my remaining water into the sink. I never can finish that full glass.

* * *

Unbeknownst to me then, the matter is anything but _little_. In fact, after that one little phone call, my life will never be the same.

* * *

The next day is a Sunday, and I fully expect to have the house to myself for the morning while Charlie goes to the tackle store with Billy. It's fishing season. Fishing is one of the few stereotypically male activities that Charlie and Billy can enjoy together on equal footing, as it were, after Billy's accident.

Because I'm expecting not to have an audience, I don't comb my hair, change out of my pajama shirt, or put on a bra. Instead, I roll out of bed and go downstairs to grab a bowl of cereal.

I'm feeling a little coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs.

When I pull my head out of the refrigerator, someone is leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, watching me.

I scream and drop the carton of milk.

"Bells!" Charlie says, putting a hand over his heart, as though _I_ am the one who scared _him_. "It's just me."

I glare at him and run a hand uselessly through my hair, trying to tame it back from my eyes.

"The TV's not on," I accuse. "How was I supposed to know you were here?"

The spoken words sound a lot worse than I mean. Charlie's eyes go all soft, and I know I've hurt his feelings.

"I just thought that maybe we could spend the day together."

The milk container on the floor burbles.

I scoop it up before the unnecessary pressure of the milk against the cap causes a huge mess that I will have to clean up carefully. Spilled milk tends to go everywhere, leaving little rancid pockets that you discover months later.

"I thought you and Billy had plans," I say nonchalantly, turning away to put the finishing touches on my bowl of cereal. The milk starts turning a satisfying chocolate brown before my very eyes.

"He, uh, wasn't feeling well."

Charlie is a terrible liar. Which is one of the reasons why I don't lie, as I'm sure that we'd be firmly "like father, like daughter" in this instance.

"Okay. What do you want to do?"

Charlie blinks, like he hasn't really thought that far ahead.

"How about we go for some ice cream?"

Ice cream? We haven't gone out for ice cream since I was six.

"Yes, please."

I bid adieu to my unfortunate bowl of Cocoa Puffs. Who am I to turn down ice cream for breakfast?

So that's how Charlie and I end up sitting outside the ice cream parlor in Port Angeles over an hour later. The parlor occupies a prime location in the downtown strip. It's decorated inside and out like an old-timey mom-and-pop soda shop with red vinyl and chrome seating and an oversized fake cone sign outside.

Unfortunately, I am not yet availing myself of the cute red and chrome seating options. I am still sitting in the passenger's cab of Charlie's truck. Who would have guessed ice cream parlors don't open until after 11:00 a.m.?

Our drive had been utterly silent. After Charlie ascertained that the only things on the radio this early on a Sunday morning were a screaming Joel Osteen and a screaming gospel choir, he flipped it off.

I don't mind the silence. I've always found silence comfortable. Of course, I would not remain comfortable once I realized that our trip had absolutely nothing to do with ice cream.

After we watch a teenager unlock the front door, we give it five minutes before we get out of the car. Then we wait five more minutes in front of the counter until the teenager looks up from sweeping the floor in the back room and notices that he has customers.

He's apparently attributed the little jingling door noise this early in the morning to his imagination.

"So," Charlie says as we sit down at a booth in the corner, our bowls overflowing with ice cream and toppings. And that is all he says. Sometimes it takes him a while to spit things out.

We carefully sculpt off pieces of our ice cream for a while. I make a miniature snowman, replete with a candy corn nose.

"How is this summer treating you?" he finally asks.

A dripping spoonful hovers millimeters from my mouth. I lower my spoon regretfully back down to my bowl.

An open-ended question.

My specialty.

"Fine," I say, putting my spoon in my mouth as the period of my sentence.

"You haven't been going out much."

That one isn't even a question.

"No," I answer anyway. Summers tend to involve me, my bed, and a mountain of books artfully positioned an arm's-length away.

"Have you thought about getting a job?"

My spoon freezes again. I'm only a junior; I hadn't been planning on getting a job until my senior year at the earliest. Is this the infamous father-daughter chat about my future?

"I've thought about it," I say cautiously.

That's probably an overstatement on my part; I may have spent less than five minutes in ninth grade pondering the topic. The options for underage employment in Forks are not merely options for employment. They are also options for torture in various forms.

Bagging groceries at the Forks Thriftway, I would have to make small talk with every old lady and man who has known me—and Charlie, for that matter—since I was in diapers. Candy-striping at the hospital, I would have to watch Lauren and Tyler groping in what they think is a surreptitious fashion. Finally, assisting hikers and hunters at Newton's Outfitters, I would have to fight off Newton's blatantly non-surreptitious attempts to grope _me_. Not to mention the added bonus of having to avoid Jealous Jessica trying to claw my eyes out about the fact that Newton isn't groping _her_.

My options aren't really options at all.

"Do you guys need any help at the police station?" I ask hopefully. "I could make copies and do computer stuff."

"Having families work together is frowned on at the station," Charlie says.

In an instant, my carefully laid plan to approach Charlie about this job is foiled. It was all in my premature execution, I'm sure. I'd planned to soften him up by suggesting a steak dinner at the Lodge. Then pop the question later as he was watching the most pivotal baseball game of the season. Preferably after he was well on his way to being drunk.

(That's about the extent of my nefarious planning; see how well it turned out?)

"So, where did you meet this Edward?"

This time, more than just my spoon freezes. Have I misunderstood the question?

"Huh?"

"Edward. I've never heard you mention him before. Your mother hasn't either." Charlie doesn't quite meet my eyes as he obliquely reveals what his conversation with Renee had been about after all.

"I've been talking to him for a while now," I say carefully, my eyes glued to my spoon, which is decapitating my snowman.

"Does he call you?"

"No."

I can't tell if it's the question or the ice cream that is making me a little queasy. Maybe I shouldn't have gone with a spoonful of _every_ available topping, particularly this early in the morning when my stomach clearly isn't used to it.

"Do you call him then?" Charlie's looking increasingly perplexed.

I just frown down at my ice cream, feeling as baffled as Charlie looks.

Surely he understands.

Apparently not—he takes my silence for assent.

Charlie shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as though he is not at all looking forward to his next question.

"How do you feel about this boy?"

Obviously, he doesn't understand at all.

"He's my friend."

Charlie's eyes are glued to his melting ice cream. Compared to mine, his mound is practically the Himalayas—he's hardly put a dent in it.

He takes a deep breath and blurts out, "Do you want to be more than friends?"

I start to get this sneaking suspicion that I know where he's going with this. It's a father-daughter chat, alright. Just not the one about my future.

"Uh," I say.

Charlie presses on, speaking rapidly to his bowl of ice cream, "Because I just want you to know that this is perfectly natural at your age. Wanting to be more than friends with boys, I mean. And I want you to know that you can talk to me or your mom about anything. Especially your mom; she knows what you're going through. She would be happy to talk to you at any time. Particularly before you try anything…new."

I stare at him.

I have never heard Charlie say so many words in a row in his life. And I can't believe that my father is giving me The Talk in an ice cream parlor. Particularly about Edward.

None of this is making any sense.

"Uh," I say.

"Well," I say.

"Okay," I say.

Charlie's cop training kicks in; he can't resist asking a clarifying question to my very vague answers. "Okay, as in you'll talk to your mom about this sometime soon?"

For some reason, this is all starting to get very irritating.

"Yes, _that_ okay."

We stare into our ice cream together. My snowman is looking very sad and droopy, as if he's aware that I'm not going to be able to finish him now.

"Should I be expecting a call from Mom the minute we get home?" I say.

"Probably," Charlie says, his eyes apologetic.

There went my somnolent Sunday.

"Okay," I say again. I'll explain things to Renee—my parents obviously have the wrong idea here—and then I can get back to my blissfully lazy summer.

Clearly, I'm very, very wrong.

* * *

My conversation with Renee starts well enough.

"How's summer going, baby?"

"Good. I'm getting a lot of reading done."

"That's great," Renee says, although I can hear her exuberance dim. She doesn't really get the whole reading thing. True to form, she changes the subject.

"Let's talk about boys," she says.

I'm used to her rapid shifts in gear and so am easily able to follow.

"What about them?"

"I hear you have one who's a _friend_."

"Uh…yeah. Yes."

Renee squeals, "My little girl is becoming a woman!"

I frown. "He's just my friend, Mom." The situation does not deserve such overwhelming enthusiasm, even though it _is_ Renee.

"What is he? Jock? Indie?"

"Um."

"C'mon, Bella, you can tell me!" I can practically see Renee bouncing with the phone, as though we're in the middle of a pajama party. She and I don't get a lot of opportunities to "dish," as it were.

"I don't know what he is, actually," I answer honestly.

"Hard to classify, is he? A mystery man?"

"You could say that." Edward is about as mysterious as it gets.

"Maybe I can help. What does he do for fun?"

My parents and their weird questions nowadays.

"I don't know," I say slowly. "Watches me?"

Renee is silent for a second. "I'm sorry?"

"I don't know what he does for fun, Mom."

"You said he _watches_ you?" For once, I can't place Renee's tone. She's gone from excited to enigmatic.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Is he one of those guys who you're sure is watching you at school, but then when you look over, you can never quite catch him in the act?"

"No," I say, although the image she paints is oddly fitting. "He doesn't go to my school."

"Bella," Renee snaps, "you're being intentionally cryptic. You know I hate it when you do that."

And I hate it when she starts criticizing me for something that I'm not actually doing.

"Uh," I say.

"Where did you meet him?"

I'm starting to get irritated now.

"We've never actually met."

This is the point in the slumber party where everyone is getting tired and cranky and just really needs to go find themselves a place to sleep and get to it before friendships are ruined.

Another long pause.

"So you've never met this Edward."

"No."

"You've never seen him."

"No."

"Yet he's your friend."

"Yes."

"And you think he watches you."

"Right."

There is an even longer pause—a Renee record, I'm sure.

Then, "Honey, how would you feel about me coming up there to visit?"

Never have I been more grateful for her ability to dance through topics of conversation like they're in a conga line. I've never really liked talking about Edward.

I'm used to her spur-of-the-moment vacations, although it's usually Renee buying me last-minute plane tickets to see her. Therefore, the real question is: How will _she_ feel about coming to Forks to visit?

Come to think of it, she hasn't been back to Forks in thirteen years. Not since she ran screaming for the hills, leaving Baby Bella and Charlie to fend for themselves.

We hang up after Renee establishes that yes, I will be around next week and no, I don't have any nefarious plots to take over the world between now and then.

Like I said.

* * *

My moment is coming.

Wait for it.

* * *

I decide that the reason my parents are responding so oddly about Edward is because we've never discussed him before. I tend not to discuss a lot of things with my parents, so leaving Edward off the list wasn't really intentional.

My parents, however, have obviously decided that now is a good time to make up for all my years of non-discussion of Edward.

After Renee's phone call, it's apparently Charlie's turn to approach me next. I'm starting to feel like a ping-pong ball being bounced from parent to parent. I've heard this is a common way for the kids of divorced parents to feel. But my parents have been divorced for more than a decade, and this is the first time I've ever felt this way.

It must be me.

Also another very common thing for a child of divorce to feel.

But I think that, in this case, my feeling is correct.

This is very much about me.

Well, me and Edward, for some unfathomable reason.

Charlie approaches me while I'm outside washing my truck. I think at first that he's coming out to chastise me for wearing his favorite flannel shirt while getting wet and soapy. I like wearing it around the house because it makes me feel small, like I'm four years old again, but I had forgotten to take it off in my excitement over the sun coming out. You have to take advantage of the sun while it's out, and what better way to do so than to wash your car?

Charlie gets right to the point. "Your mother is under the notion that you've never actually seen this Edward."

He smiles at me across the truck bed, bristling his mustache a bit, and I smile back. I know exactly what he's thinking; Renee does get some awfully funny ideas sometime. But this time, her funny idea is correct.

"That's right."

As I wipe my rag across the bulbous bumper, the smile wipes right off Charlie's face. After a while, he grabs a spare rag and helps me towel off the rest of the truck in silence.

Later that night, I hear Charlie talking to someone out on the porch again. This time, I listen to his side of the conversation from the window of my room.

"Renee, we're talking about the girl who has been responsible enough since she was ten years old to cook her father's meals and do her father's laundry. And never _once_ complain about it."

Charlie's voice is getting a bit loud; I can hear every word he speaks very clearly.

"No, that does _not_ make her weird," Charlie bites out, and my stomach clenches oddly at the fact that he is clearly defending me to my mom. "She's always been sensible and willing to do whatever necessary to make those around her happy."

What _is_ weird is hearing me described that way. I cook the meals and do the laundry because there's something satisfying about each task. I get pleasure out of eating what I cook. I get pleasure out of sorting the clothes into perfectly color-coordinated piles. I don't know if I would say that I do those things to make _other_ people happy.

"I didn't say that," Charlie snaps, and I can just imagine what Renee had thought he said. I'm sure she'd thought his comment about me being sensible was actually a barb about her. You can't really say anything about me without Renee mentally twisting it into a negative comment about her. Charlie should have known better.

"Alright," he says in his I'm-backing-down-now voice. "Alright. I'll make her an appointment to see someone next week."

See someone?

See someone about what?

* * *

Almost there.

* * *

Just like that, everything about my life, my normal, boring life, gets a little weird. Renee takes to calling me every day, even though she's going to see me soon. She tends to call only when the spirit moves her each day, so I never quite know when to expect a burst of her particular brand of cheer, cheer that involves questions like these:

"Why do you spend so much time reading books?" Perhaps to be smart. To get into college. To avoid working at the Thriftway for the rest of my life.

"Why don't you have any friends?" I don't think it wise to mention Edward as a proof point here. And I decide not to bring up Alice, either, as she isn't exactly a fount of well-adjusted normalcy herself.

"Why don't you go out with boys?" And here I thought that my parents had been jumping down my throat in the first place because they thought I _was_ going out with a boy.

Renee has so many questions that I feel like she's almost been waiting for something like this to happen to me. Although I'm still not completely clear on what _this_ is.

Charlie starts to hover as well, which drives me crazy because he _never_ hovers. He turns down a weekend fishing trip with Harry Clearwater. He starts going in to work late and coming home on time. He starts asking me to go eat with him at the diner every night, something we haven't done since before I was ten and decided that I'd prefer the variety of my own cooking.

And Edward…

Well.

What does Edward think about all this, you ask?

That's a very good question. A question that I really can't answer because Edward doesn't exactly talk much.

Okay, _ever_.

He doesn't talk ever.

But maybe he will now. I mean, he has to see that he's causing this huge problem in my life, just by existing.

All I want is for this to go away, for everything to go back to exactly the way it was. I want to continue reading down the tower of books currently crumbling from lack of proper maintenance in my room. And I want to talk to Edward whenever I darn-well please.

Although I'm starting to feel like he doesn't deserve it.

After all, I talk, but he never talks back.

* * *

My life is spiraling out of control, my previously firm foundation turning to quicksand beneath my feet.

I need my rock.

I need Alice.

So to Alice's house I go.

Hopefully, she can shed some light on the upside-down world that I'm all of a sudden living in. I have faith in Alice.

I have faith in Alice because Alice has been my best friend since the crib. Because Alice is practically a genius when it comes to getting out of the messy situations that she's also a genius at getting us into. But the number one reason that I know she'll be able to help is that, like me, Alice has her own friend.

His name is Jasper.

Granted, I've only heard her say his name once. We were talking along one day in the sixth grade about school and boys when we both began to realize that there was something we weren't saying. We realized that there was someone else in each of our lives, someone who we were sort of alluding to but whom we weren't flat-out talking about.

We just looked at each other.

We clicked.

We _knew_.

Alice asked me, "What's his name?"

"Edward," I said in little more than a whisper.

"Jasper," she said with an emphatic nod.

And we were cool.

Now, I need a little more than just a name. I need to know more about her Jasper.

Alice is lying on the floor of her room when I walk in, doodling on a sketchpad she's holding aloft at arm's length. She once told me that the position helps her focus on making perfect circles. If she can make perfect circles with her pencil and paper upside down, she can make them anytime, anywhere. Apparently, being able to draw perfect circles without a compass is a pre-requisite to getting into the fancy art school in Seattle that she hopes to attend some day.

"Alice," I say without preamble, "tell me about Jasper."

I expect her to squeal in delight, grab my hands, and propel us onto her bed, where we will sit cross-legged with our knees touching while sharing secrets about our respective men. Instead, I watch her pencil slip across the page, no doubt creating an imperfect bulge in her previously perfect circle. Her dark eyes lock with mine.

"What do you want to know?"

I've never before seen Alice Brandon look uncomfortable, scared, or wary.

I do now.

"Everything. I want to know everything," I say and sit myself on the edge of her bed since she doesn't seem inclined to offer me a seat. I draw my knees up to my chest and wait.

Alice lowers her sketchpad to the floor with one hand and stares through the ceiling with unfocused eyes.

"I'm not supposed to talk about him," she finally says.

My heart quickens as I imagine Jasper cautioning her to silence, her swearing to never reveal his existence to another soul. I wonder if he actually speaks to her. I wonder if she's _seen_ him.

"Says who?" I try to keep my tone light, but inside, I'm burning.

Alice turns her face toward the opposite wall so that I can no longer see her eyes.

"No one."

And it's like I answered the question myself, about Edward. Alice and I, we are truly kindred spirits.

"Alice, I _know_," I say, my voice trembling with emotion and excitement. "I know _exactly_ what you're talking about. This is me, remember?"

It's enough to get her looking at me again, but her eyes are dead, her forehead crinkled in an uncharacteristic frown. She clearly isn't on the same emotional plane that I am.

"Bella, what's this about?" she says with a sigh, like she's very tired. I'm starting to get a little annoyed. I want my bright-eyed, daredevil friend to come to the rescue here. I want us to start gushing and clicking and bonding and laughing about the fact that our parents think that our friends don't really exist.

"This is about the fact that my parents found out about Edward."

That gets a reaction, but not the one I expect. I expect her to be sympathetic. Instead, the fear and doubt in her eyes changes to hope.

"Edward?" she exclaims, sitting up abruptly and snapping her fingers. "That's right! I _knew_ I had been forgetting something."

This is more like it. I lean forward onto my knees, eager to hear the thoughts that are racing through her pretty little head.

"I'm _not_ the only one. Those psychiatrists had me so confused and twisted and tied into knots that I could barely remember my own name. I should never have let them give me the drugs."

Now it's my turn to be alarmed, to not understand what she's talking about.

"Alice, what…?" I start, but she knows me so well that she can respond to my question before I finish it.

"Oh Bella, don't you see?" Her eyes are finally bright, and she's bouncing up and down on her knees. "My parents found out about Jasper last year, over the summer. Remember how I went on that three-month 'vacation' before school started?"

I nod, unsure what her glamorous trek through Italy has to do with this.

"Well, the trip wasn't just for fun. My parents are firm believers in Old World medicine and the therapeutic benefits of the Italian countryside. They rented a suite in a medieval Italian castle for us while I saw some of the premier European psychiatrists."

"But why would they go to so much trouble about Jasper?" I'm bewildered.

Alice's eyes and mouth go round.

"Oh," she says.

"I get it," she says.

"You don't know," she says.

"Know what?" I snap. Alice is the queen of melodrama, and she's working it today.

"People consider Edward to be your imaginary friend."

I blink at her.

Imaginary?

Since when has anyone said anything about anyone being imaginary?

"Imaginary?" I echo.

"You know, like wizards and werewolves and six-foot pink bunnies. Imaginary."

"I know what imaginary means," I snap again. "Edward is not imaginary."

"Oh, of course not. I know that," she says, flipping her hair in the way that she says drives the boys wild. "But most people don't."

"What do you mean?" I say through clenched teeth. Although I love it when Alice is coy with our teachers, when she brings her devastating intellect to bear to make them look stupid or to get the class out of a dumb homework assignment, I like it much less when she uses her smarts against me.

"I _mean,_" she draws out the word, "that most kids have imaginary friends. But normal kids grow out of them."

I had come to Alice's room to pick my way back to solid ground again, to find a bulwark upon which I can rest my bruised and aching mind. Instead, I feel my world spinning faster and faster until I'm sure that my mind is spinning in one of Alice's perfect circles.

This is my moment.

The moment when I realize for the first time what this all means.

Wait for it.

My parents think that Edward is nothing more than a figment of my imagination. My parents are sending me to see a shrink. My parents think I'm coo-coo—sans the Cocoa Puffs.

There it is.

"You're wrong," I say. "All kinds of people have non-imaginary friends like Edward."

Alice just flips her hair again, her eyes darkening in familiar challenge.

"You're wrong," I repeat stubbornly, "and I'm going to prove it."


	2. Proving it

**------------| Glitch **_continues _**|------------**

One week.

In one week, Renee will be in Forks for the first time in thirteen years. In one week, I'll be sitting in a fancy pants office, no doubt feeling intimidated by a row of gleaming, gold-gilded books framing a gleaming, sweat-gilded pate. In one week, I will be expected to actually _talk_ to this someone with said pate, a someone I don't even know.

Therefore, I have one week to prove that lots of kids have non-imaginary friends like Edward and Jasper. That Alice and I are far from the "odd" end of the bell curve on this. As I believe I've already discussed, I'm as far from the "odd" end of the bell curve as they come.

Naïvely, I don't anticipate needing the full week.

Instead, I expect that the process will be as simple as churning out a five-paragraph essay, a feat I've been required to perform so often in AP English that I can do it in the time it takes to brush my teeth. (To be fair, I floss. Thoroughly.) I already have my thesis statement. I'll do a quick Google search to find the three prongs of my supporting argument pitchfork. And then I'll drive my thesis home with a resounding, four-sentence conclusion that will leave no doubt in my readers' minds that yes, lots of kids have non-imaginary friends like Edward.

Three hard-copy print-outs and one soft-copy e-mail to Renee later, I will have delivered a crisp, compelling "I told you so" that will not only allow me to get back to my blissfully lazy summer but that will provide the added bonus of edifying my family and friend.

Best of all, I won't even have had to say a single word.

My favorite.

I open Google's blank canvas and happily go to.

* * *

An absurd number of hours and mouse clicks later, I'm significantly less than happy.

For the first time in my life, Google has failed me. No matter how hard I squint, the squiggly lines on my computer monitor are not magically resolving into the simple statistics that I need.

I won't lie; I'm shaken. I never thought I'd see the day when the Google giant would fall. Particularly to something as frivolous as this topic. A search that should have taken minutes has stretched into hours. An activity that should have set my world a-right is wobbling my world even further.

Don't get me wrong; Google has spewed more than I ever wanted to know about _imaginary_ friends. For example, I've learned that 65% of kids under the age of six have them. Unlike in previous decades, this fact is no longer considered a sign that a child is well on its way to becoming anti-social. Instead, having an imaginary friend is now considered the kiss of creativity. So far, this is my only proof point that Edward is not imaginary; I'm not creative enough to conjure things of out of thin air, much less people.

If I would have conjured anything, it would probably have been a miniature elephant. Now that I think about it, I really like the idea of a tiny trunk grasping a pencil. I would try to teach it to write its name— _Ms. Elle Fant_.

Before you ask—no, I didn't come up with that on my own. I'm merely reading an anecdote about a five-year-old child who did.

Is it weird that I'm jealous of a toddler?

Inexplicably irritated, I close the window, which was helpfully displaying a finger-painting of a palm-sized elephant holding a pencil.

Google really does have a lot to say about imaginary friends. Unfortunately, Google has a lot less to say about _non-imaginary friends_. Probably because the word _non-imaginary_ isn't a real word (the irony does not escape me). And because it includes the word _imaginary_, which seems to confuse Google into continuing to provide me with yet more anecdotes about imaginary friends.

Try as I might, I can't find the exact word for what Edward is. None of the obvious words feel right. He's not what I would dub magical or mystical. He's like that feeling that you get when you need to sneeze but can't. There's no word for it, which makes searching for it rather difficult.

Of course, I still try.

I dutifully skim content that is only marginally related. The sites I find are not particularly helpful, as I'm not really interested in a list of strategies that have proven effective in dissuading stalkers. Edward isn't a stalker.

I don't think.

I know that he's watching me, of course, but I've never actually seen him doing so. He never sends me creepy letters. He never calls me and breathes heavily on the other line. He never does anything that makes me uncomfortable.

Quite simply, the stalker theory doesn't fit.

When I read about some random guy with an imaginary friend who wants him to kill all his non-imaginary friends, I become disturbed. I think he's kidding.

I think.

In any case, I switch gears, refocusing my search to see if perhaps anyone's imaginary friend has ever proved to be non-imaginary later in life.

The short answer—no.

In fact, Google says that parents should be concerned if an imaginary friend follows a child into the teenaged years. By the age of twelve, most children have said their final farewell to their friend. Teenagers and adults with imaginary friends often create them in response to some type of trauma, such as the death of a parent.

I don't see how this fits. I've never experienced anything that I would particularly qualify as trauma. More to the point, though, Edward isn't an imaginary friend.

He's something else.

Something indescribable.

Something that I'm going to have to eventually divine a word for.

As I finally fall into bed, I mentally revise my estimate of how long this whole proving it business is going to take. Looks like I might need more of this week than I had originally thought.

* * *

Next morning, I'm crunching my Lucky Charms (Cocoa Puffs are out of favor for obvious reasons) and am reminding myself that, although my go-to method of legwork has failed, the traditional type of legwork is always an option—the actual "get up and go" type. Despite their decided lack of calf muscle, my chicken legs do, in fact, work.

Still, I'm leery.

I'm always leery of walking around town where people can see me and perhaps even try to make small talk. I'm leery because I will be walking around town with the goal of making small talk.

To hopefully minimize unfocused chatting, I equip myself with a red spiral notebook, a number two pencil, and two yes/no questions: (a) Do you or did you have an imaginary friend? and (b) Do you or did you have a non-imaginary friend? In case the person answers "Yes" to either question, I also have a few clarifying questions prepared.

I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

Turns out, I was right to be leery. My traditional legwork doesn't go as well as I had hoped. (The theme of my summer.)

My legwork does, at least, start out okay. I find it relatively easy to track down my fellow Forks High students, even despite the fact that, without the cohesion of classes, we're scattered to the wind. I start with people I know, people to whom I've actually spoken. After getting a rather blank look from that one person—Angela—I move on to people I have never talked to. Well, aside from saying stuff like "Pass the test tube" and "I'm actually busy that weekend."

I look for said people in the places of torture, a.k.a. summertime employment. Tony at the Thriftway chats me up for thirty minutes because bagging groceries is so boring that he probably would have admitted to having an imaginary mouse in his pocket to keep me talking to him. After finally getting him to admit that no, he does not actually have an imaginary mouse in his pocket, I move along.

My conversation with Mike and Jessica at the Newton's store is my next hurdle. It's hard enough trying to steer Mike in a particular conversational direction. He tends to have a one-track mind when it comes to me—and his one track is, well, _me_. Throw Jessica in there, whose one-track mind involves Mike, and you can basically step back and watch the situation descend into chaos.

Like so.

When the cowbell above the door heralds my presence to everyone within a one-mile radius, Mike immediately perks up and pounces. "Oh hey, Bella. I was just thinking about you."

Like I said.

I round a row of fishing rods to see Jessica sitting on a stool right beside him.

Mike leans forward on the counter and says, "I was wondering—do you want to go to the movies this Saturday?"

Yes, Jessica is still sitting right beside him.

"I don't really do movies." Particularly since the incident in Port Angeles. "Jess, you do movies?"

Jess preens, sitting prim and proper on her stool. "Yeah I—"

"How about bowling, then?" Mike asks.

I answer, "Five to ten pounds of anything in my hand is dangerous. But I'll bet Jess is a good bowler."

Jess preens more. "Actually, I—"

We continue going in circles for a while longer, Mike looking at me, me deflecting his attention to Jessica, and Jessica's fawning deflecting Mike back to me. Normally, I would have found it epic. But today I merely need them to answer two simple questions.

"Hey," I say, snapping the air in front of Mike's face when he's gearing up to ask me on yet another date-like activity. "Focus. I merely need you to answer a survey I'm doing for, uh, school."

Mike eyes my little red notebook with distaste, as if he hadn't been planning on thinking about school for at _least_ another month. Then his face brightens. "If I take your survey, will you go body boarding with me down at the beach?"

No bimbos blowing stuff up on the big screen and no bowling but he's thinking body boarding?

"No."

I finally get both of them to answer my questions. As suspected, neither Mike nor Jessica has the appropriate level of imagination necessary to have imagined a friend. I don't bother asking them Question B.

As I leave the store, Mike watches me as unerringly and unblinkingly as an Alaskan huskie. Before the glass door closes behind me, I hear Jess say in what she probably deems her sexy voice, "I'll go body boarding. I just bought a white bikini."

I hurry gratefully away and continue on my mission. In my quest, I talk to many of my fellow juniors. I talk to seniors. I talk to fifth graders. I talk to toddlers. I do more talking in a single week than I've done in my entire life.

I even try talking to Yorkie, Forks High's resident stoner. My final stop in the search for fresh meat is school itself, where I know the underachievers will be spending what would normally have been their free time repeating an activity they could have avoided by merely…_trying_ the first time around.

Diagram _that_ sentence for me.

My opinion of summer school is not improved when I walk into a classroom to find that the teacher has apparently wandered off. The resident underachievers aren't even pretending to complete the assignment that is written on the board. Instead, they're grouped in circles, sitting on their desks, or lounging on the floor. They're talking, break-dancing, and smoking the occasional cigarette.

I walk up to the only dude I recognize, and I recognize him only because Yorkie's kind of hard to forget. He's the only guy at school who wears guyliner and black fingernail polish and has pink-tipped hair.

"So," I say.

"So," he responds, giving me the once-over and immediately losing the little interest he'd mustered. I stand awkwardly for a moment and watch some guy in a beanie spinning on his head.

Then I press on. "I'm doing this survey about imaginary friends."

Immediately, Yorkie's bleary eye widens (neon-pink hair obscures the other one, which I assume is also red, bleary, and wider). He puts a finger of caution over his lips.

"We can't talk here," he says and turns on the heels of his Vans.

I blink five times and then scurry to keep up. Yorkie walks out of the classroom, through the nearest exit, and toward the tree line bordering the school. As I stand propping open the exit, I watch his retreating back for a second and note from the way that his collar is turned up and his hands are lodged in the front pockets of his coat that his posture isn't exactly welcoming.

Yorkie is hardly the type of person you want to follow alone into the woods. But I obviously don't have a choice. I really need to hear what he has to say. So I let the exit door swing closed and follow Yorkie's stiff back all the way through the tree line and past a rather alarming number of trees.

I jump when he whirls to face me. He looks around to make sure that no one is listening. I look around, too, and confirm that we are, indeed, alone in the middle of the woods.

"What's this about imaginary friends?" he demands.

"I'd like to know if you have one."

"Oh," he says. "I don't."

Uh…

"Then why did you make me follow you all the way out here?"

He looks around again and lowers his voice. "Because I have a friend of the non-imaginary persuasion."

Despite the doubt I know I should feel about the source in question, I'm elated. I'm elated because this is the first positive response that I've received all week. I'm elated because I haven't even had to ask him my questions. And I'm elated because he used the exact same term that I do.

"You do?"

"Absolutely. I feel like I'm being watched all the time. I feel the prickling on the back of my neck, you know, like when there's someone standing right behind you."

The skin on the back of my neck prickles as he speaks. I wonder if he can tell that his friend is here, watching, the way that I can tell mine is. I wonder if he's whispering in hopes that his friend won't hear. I'm so glad I decided it was safe to follow him out into the deserted woods.

Then he goes somewhere I can never follow.

"It's the aliens," he says. "They implanted a monitor in my brain when they abducted me into their mother ship."

Oh.

Of course they did.

"Well," he backpedals, a crease in his brow, "it's either the aliens or that government cell that infiltrated Forks last year."

"Right." Would you look at the time? I do, on the imaginary watch on my wrist. "Let me know if…the aliens start doing anything besides watching," I say. "I think they might be planning an invasion."

My motto: When in doubt, play along.

Yorkie nods seriously, as if he's suspected as much about those sneaky aliens.

I can't get away from there fast enough. It would have been just like me to follow a psycho into the woods and get killed.

* * *

At the end of that week, I'm sitting back on Alice's bed, scowling down at my little red notebook, which contains the less-than-helpful results of all that talking.

"What was your cover story?" Alice asks, inspecting her nails. She's painted them each a different animal. The finger she's currently eyeballing is a ladybug.

"Pre-semester extra credit paper for Ms. Hardy."

Alice nods as if to say "Of course." Ms. Hardy is famous for giving extra credit opportunities. I'm famous for using them to get well over a perfect average in every one of her classes.

"And your findings?"

I hold my notebook up officially and clear my throat. "Of the thirty-five people under twenty who I talked to, twenty-two had imaginary friends when they were (or are) younger."

"Sixty-five percent," Alice muses. "That's about right."

Looks like I'm not the only one who's done her research.

I continue, "Thirty-four of the thirty-five gave me blank stares when I asked about any non-imaginary yet still non-invisible friends. Eleven of them under the age of six still have imaginary friends. Yet all eleven of the same are aware that their friends are imaginary."

Alice hums noncommittally.

"Oh, and Yorkie thinks that his non-imaginary friends are aliens and/or government agents." It was supposed to be an anonymous poll, but Alice deserves to know this little fact. You know, in case he ever asks _her_ to follow him alone into the woods.

Alice merely nods thoughtfully, as though she's giving Yorkie's theories careful consideration. I throw both myself and the notebook down on the bed with a sigh.

"Alice, I'm beginning to think you're right."

Alice flashes me the blue bird on her middle finger. I translate the gesture to mean duh, she's always right and don't doubt her again.

"The question is," I continue, sitting up quickly enough to give myself a head rush. "What are we going to do about it? How are we going to prove that Jasper and Edward are real?"

I look expectantly at my friend, who also happens to be a genius when it comes to coming up with things for us to do.

Alice taps a finger (a turtle) against the side of her mouth. Then, "Yeah, I got nothing."

I had been doing my own thinking during that time, just in case.

"I think what we need to do is pool our resources," I say.

"What do you mean?"

"I think you need to tell me all about Jasper. And I'll tell you all about Edward. Let's see if there are any similarities, any unusual patterns that would point to some method behind this, well, madness."

It's a good plan.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work.

As it turns out, there aren't any particular patterns that we can discern in our respective experiences. For one, Alice doesn't really feel like Jasper is watching her. She doesn't feel like he's the source of unexplained events in her life, like I do Edward.

But the most important difference is that Alice has _seen_ Jasper. Not clearly, mind you, and usually not when she's been awake. But she knows that he has blond hair and lips that curl up funny when he speaks in that Southern accent of his.

"He _speaks_ to you?"

"Well." Alice shifts uncomfortably. "Again, I wouldn't call it _speaking_ any more than I would call it _seeing_. Sometimes, when I'm dreaming, I can hear him say stuff."

I stare at her.

"What stuff?"

"Words, phrases, sometimes sentences."

Had I been Superman, my gaze would have melted her to slag. She grins at me, all cheek, and holds up her ring finger, a puppy with contrite eyes.

"Unfortunately," she says with a sigh, "he's never said anything particularly interesting. Comments on the weather. Talks a lot about deer. I think maybe he's a hunter."

At this point, I'm picturing Jasper as a gallon hat-wearing, shotgun-totin', spur-jinglin' hick. But that's probably because I'm jealous that I can picture him at all.

I wonder what Edward looks like. I wonder what Edward sounds like. I'll bet he looks and sounds nice. I'll bet _he_ doesn't look or sound like a cowboy. Oddly enough, I always picture him British. But that could be because of the source of his name.

"And sometimes," Alice adds, "I dream of Jasper when I'm awake."

Yeah, I wouldn't say that there are similarities between our situations. Except, of course, for the fact that we both know beyond a shadow of a doubt that our respective friends exist.

"So that was _Edward_ in Port Angeles?" Alice says idly, snaking her pinky finger along the floor.

"Yes." At least, I hope it was.

"Huh." She makes her snake-finger eat the baby blue bird that was rude to me.

Serves it right.

"All this time," she says, "I thought you merely had an adrenaline rush."

* * *

The day of my appointment with the "someone" looms, and I'm no closer to gathering relevant data that will allow me to have my usual level of intelligent conversation with the man. Alice sympathizes, but she's not bringing her A game on this one. I guess I can understand why. It sounds like that three-month Italian vacation was less than rejuvenating.

Unfortunately, I'm distracted from further attempts at research by the fanfare of Renee's arrival in Forks. She zooms up to our house in a yellow rental two days before my appointment. We weren't expecting her until tomorrow, but that's Renee, reliable as the weather.

Usually, though, she's late. In fact, this might be the first time in her life that she's been early to anything. She must really be excited about this whole psychiatry thing. I don't think she's ever had an excuse to go to a real, live psychiatrist before.

When Charlie gruffs something about her being welcome to stay with us, she informs him that she's already got a reservation at a bed and breakfast in Port Angeles. She says that PA has more things for us to do while she's here. Charlie and I both understand the backhanded implication of her statement, but we also both let it slide.

"Bella," she says, turning her exuberance on me. "Would you like to come with me for a sleepover tonight?"

I don't really want to.

Before I can answer, she says, "We could paint the town red tomorrow. Port Angeles won't know what hit it."

Well, when you put it that way…

On the drive to PA, Renee gives me the skinny on the psychiatrist that she's having me see. "He's well-known in Washington, lives in a mansion on the Port Angeles waterfront, and comes into Forks three days a week for appointments."

She's giving me his credentials as animatedly as if I'm going out on a blind date. I can tell from the excitement on her face that psychiatry is going to be her fad of the week. I'm determined, of course, that she will only need to be here a week. Once I talk to this renowned psychiatrist and explain myself, I'm sure everything will be fine.

Over the next two days, Renee and I paint Port Angeles red—if by paint you mean douse it in the blood from my feet. I exaggerate, but I do follow Renee up and down the city streets for so many hours each day that my feet, unaccustomed to this torture, produce blood blisters. If they had popped and if I had been barefoot, they might have doused (okay, _dotted_) the streets.

We must have walked into every little touristy shop, gone to every remotely appealing cultural event, and eaten a smorgasbord of food. Through it all, I can feel Renee's eyes on me more than usual, watching, appraising. She knows that being out and about among my fellow man isn't exactly the way I'd choose to spend my days. She knows that I need my alone time. She's probably waiting to see if I'll start to crack under the pressure.

I notice that, through it all, she doesn't say a word about Edward.

We've settled on a park bench to eat ice cream cones purchased from a street vendor when Renee finally asks the question that has likely been on her mind since she arrived.

"So, have you seen Edward lately?"

What is it with my parents and initiating tough conversations over ice cream? To buy time, I take a languid lick of vanilla goodness.

Of all the questions that Renee could have asked, she goes and asks one that she already knows the answer to. I was quite clear on the phone earlier that I've never actually _seen_ Edward.

"No, I haven't," I answer honestly.

She lowers her voice and leans closer, eyes shifty. "Do you think he's around, right now?" She's smiling, but it's a fake smile, all teeth.

"No." I don't even look up from my ice cream. I rarely sense Edward when I'm around a lot of people. Not to say that he's not here, it's merely a lot harder for me to tell. And right now, I don't want to be able to tell.

She frowns, and I can see that she's gearing up for another lightning round of twenty questions, likely questions that I'll have a much harder time answering honestly. I need to distract her. Now.

"Mom," I say, "are you really going to talk to me about Edward?" I pitch my voice just right to make talking about Edward sound like the most ludicrous idea ever. "Becausse I was hoping this would be a girls' night."

She looks at me knowingly, like she sees right through my tone and the fact that I'm talking about a girls' night like it's a good thing.

But she rolls with it.

"You're right. You'll have plenty of time to tell your psychiatrist all about Edward." She swivels and chucks her half-full cone into a nearby garbage can. She's never liked having to work for that last bit stuck in the bottom. "Wanna go check out that band playing down in the square tonight? From those posters we've been seeing, they look hot!"

I don't point out that they also look two decades younger than she is. Renee has no problem embracing her inner cougar.

She's bounding through the park now, motioning for me to come with. I get up and follow, pausing only to send my own half-full cone into the chasm.

* * *

Too soon (and yet not), Renee is chauffeuring me back to Forks for my appointment.

I say it's too soon because I don't want P-Day (Psychiatry Day) to have arrived. I say it's not too soon because, after two days of living at Renee's frenetic pace, I'm practically catatonic—I can barely talk or move the entire drive home. I certainly don't have the energy to go explain to some dude why there's no possible way that I'm crazy.

Nevertheless, I must go and do just that.

Ready or not, here I come.

We make a pit stop at home so that I can drop off my overnight bag and change into something nice, at Renee's request. Apparently, jeans and sneakers are not appropriate attire to wear to my first session (a.k.a. date) with this psychiatrist.

I find the idea of a psychiatrist caring what I'm wearing a bit creepy. And I'm strangely satisfied when Renee marches me up to the office of a man who is wearing one of the dowdiest outfits I've seen, a hodge-podge of rumpled layers in various shades of blah.

"Hello, Bella, Renee," the man says, extending his hand, "I'm Dr. Kaczmarczyk."

Um, what? The name that he's provided sounds as clear to me as someone trying to say "fluffy bunny" through a mouthful of marshmallows. As I shake his hand, my eyes shift to the name plate on his door. Unfortunately, I can't even decipher his name in writing.

"Do you go by Dr. K?"

His startled blinks are magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. Although his eyes are saying that he doesn't, his mouth says that he does.

Well, he does now.

I don't like him already.

Honesty, you see, is a critical part of the doctor/patient dynamic.

Despite his atypical name, Dr. K looks exactly like how I've imagined a typical psychiatrist would look—balding hair; full beard with the first distinguished hints of gray; an academic's soft body; the aforementioned eyewear.

Renee is disappointed when he asks her to wait outside in the lobby.

"Well, Bella," Dr. K says, peering at me earnestly over his glasses. I've situated myself in the plush leather armchair across from his. "Tell me about yourself."

Perfect. The one person who I'm supposed to talk to about Edward doesn't want to talk about Edward. He wants to talk about _me_.

Not my favorite subject.

Fortunately, I had the foresight to bring my little red notebook. As he writes down stuff about me, I write down stuff about him. For example, I write down the fact that he's sitting with one leg crossed over the other like a girl. I write down the fact that said leg is facing away from me, which I feel is a decidedly anti-social position for it to be in.

My note-taking makes it a particularly productive hour. Apparently, Dr. K thinks so as well because he asks to see me the next day.

And the next.

I really don't know what I was worried about. This whole psychiatry thing? It's not so hard.

Despite the general monotony of his voice and appearance, Dr. K is a good listener. By the end of our third session, we've talked about all kinds of irrelevant details about my life, including my lack of friends, my single-minded focus on getting good grades, and my complete distaste for the color green. I notice, however, that we have not yet talked about Edward.

Nevertheless, Dr. K has a preliminary diagnosis.

When he gives us his professional opinion, Renee and I stare at him. Renee's staring at him because, if he's correct, she thinks her life will be over. I'm staring because, if he's correct, my life as I know it really will be over.

"I want a second opinion," Renee says. I'm sure she's always wanted to say that.

No surprise, when psychiatrist number two also diagnoses me with the same thing, Renee wants yet another opinion. How very coincidental that there are three psychiatrists on staff at Forks Medical Center and Renee wants three opinions.

Me? I'm learning a lot through this process. More than I want to know, actually. For example, I've always wondered why we have three—_three!_—psychiatrists at a hospital that boasts only one general physician. I've always wondered if every town has an Old Man Jenks whose front lawn is filled with squatty yard gnomes that he lectures to every night. I've always wondered if every town boasts a lady who solemnly directs non-existent traffic on Main Street wearing a single, prim white glove.

The answer is that most towns don't.

Apparently, Forks is a Petri dish of crazy. Something about the average distance between homesteads being higher than the national average. Something about the overwhelming solitude and the pressing crush of decade-old trees. Something about that mind-bending adage about the tree falling in the forest that may or may not cause a sound. Surrounded by all these trees that might potentially fall, it's no wonder a large percentage of the general Forks populace is a little touched in the head.

Myself included, apparently.

For according to not one but three psychiatrists, I have a slight problem.

"Mrs. Dwyer," they had each said solemnly, "your daughter has schizophrenia."

* * *

Just FYI, I received the following review from Mike Newton: This story is almost as riveting as _Face Punch_. But I'm not in it enough.


	3. Therapeutic

**------------| Glitch **_continues _**|------------**

Schizophrenia.

I've been diagnosed with schizophrenia.

Not once, but three times.

As far as schizophrenia goes, my case is considered relatively mild. I don't hear voices. I'm not (medically) catatonic. I don't look in the rearview mirror to see someone other than myself glaring back. I've merely felt an invisible presence watching me all my life.

I'd never expected to know what it feels like to be diagnosed with a mental illness. How do you react to being told that you have a glitch in your brain? I'll tell you how you react—first, you flat-out deny it.

"I'm not crazy," I say forcefully to Renee and Dr. K as we're stepping in to what I thought was a deserted hallway.

Right then, Yorkie walks by and says, "Shh, not so loud. Remember what you said about the aliens."

Yorkie walks away.

Renee and Dr. K stare at me.

"I was just messing with his head," I say by way of explanation. They don't look convinced. Renee is still staring after Yorkie like she can't believe that her daughter associates with the likes of _that_.

"Do you often mess with the heads of other mental patients?" Dr. K says.

I really don't like his use of the word _other_.

"And we try not to use the word 'crazy' around here," Dr. K says.

When the denial doesn't work, you start to question _everything_.

You wonder about that constant prick on your neck, the feeling of being watched, the slight movement you've always sensed in your peripheral vision at the most unusual of times—like when nothing nearby is actually moving. You wonder why, no matter where you go, you eventually notice that the wildlife in the area goes still and quiet, so quiet that you can hear only the sound of your own breathing, your own pulse pounding. Your passing is enough to clear a forest for miles.

You like baby animals? Forget it. You've learned over the years that puppies and kittens generally only react to you in one of two ways: they whine and cower near someone else's legs or they spit and snarl and try to scratch your eyes out.

Is that normal? Is that your fault?

You wonder about those times you've woken up to find the rocking chair in the corner creaking faintly despite the fact that your window is closed.

You wonder about that day with the book.

You wonder about Port Angeles.

Have I really spent a majority of my life under the delusion that I'm being shadowed by an imaginary being? Have I mistakenly attributed little things that I've seen but could never explain to the wrong source?

I don't think so.

But, for the first time in my life, I'm not so sure.

* * *

We bid Dr. K a solemn adieu and start the walk back to the car. Once we're outside, away from people, Renee completely freaks out.

I've seen Renee freak out before. Like the time when I'd fallen down her stairs and broken both wrists. Or when there was a spider in the corner of her bedroom. Or the time when her absolutely favorite ice cream, which is _never_ on sale, was on sale.

But this.

This is a true freak out.

I know because she goes unnaturally still, unnaturally silent, as though she can't bear to talk, as though she can't bear to move. It's so completely the opposite of what I had expected her to do that I'm distracted from being worried about myself to being worried about her. We sit for awhile in the car, not saying a word. When she makes no move to drive us home, I tentatively ask her if she wants me to drive instead. Only then does she shake her head and raise trembling, tinkling keys to the ignition.

When we get home, she barrels straight through the front door and toward the back of the house.

"What is it?" Charlie asks from the couch as Renee brushes by him. I notice that he's not even pretending to watch TV; he's been sitting and waiting for us to get home.

The sound of a door closing is Renee's only answer. Charlie turns to me, eyes worried.

"What happened?"

"We received my 'diagnosis' today."

"And…?"

"Supposedly, I have early onset schizophrenia." I do a little half-laugh, expecting Charlie to laugh right along with me. Surely he has to understand how ludicrous this all is. How the doctors cannot possibly have diagnosed me with such a serious illness based on what they have seen of me so far.

But Charlie doesn't smile. Charlie doesn't laugh. Instead, he blanches and looks in the direction that Renee has gone. His bedroom door is closed.

"Ah," he says at last. He seems distraught. He seems torn, as if he doesn't know whether to go after Renee or stay here with me. Looking back at me, he asks, "You okay?"

"I'm good," I say immediately, not really wanting to rehash everything with him anyway. "Go talk to Mom. I'll be in my room."

I can feel his eyes on me until I'm up the stairs and have closed my door.

* * *

Alone at last.

I stand looking at my computer for a long time. Part of me wants to throw myself into a Google marathon, to research a veritable tome of reasons why it's absolutely not possible that I have schizophrenia. Why that very notion should be summarily bound and gagged and thrown off a cliff. I itch to research Dr. K and expose him for the fraud that he is. Maybe he got his degree at one of those online universities. After all, he does work in _Forks_.

Instead, I decide that the best place to start is at the very beginning. This had all begun when I was talking to Edward one day in my room.

So to Edward I would talk again.

Granted, I talk to him all the time. Not constantly, mind you, because that would be weird. During the school year, I'm in the habit of telling him what I'm thinking, mostly when I'm doing homework. It's therapeutic to talk through a complicated math problem or what I envision the topic of my next paper to be.

Occasionally, I talk to him about my frustrations with this teacher or that, with Renee, with Charlie. Sometimes I use him as a sounding board when I have a particularly difficult message I need to deliver to someone, like that time I had to tell Dr. Banner that he'd graded my test wrong.

Sometimes, I even read to Edward aloud, sharing with him my favorite passages from my favorite novels. Although I do find myself reverting to reading silently through any particularly romantic scenes. Somehow it always grows a little uncomfortable at that point.

As I'm sitting on my bed trying to figure out how to best approach this conversation, I realize that I've never talked to Edward directly. I've never actually said "Edward" and then made a statement. Does that mean I'm less crazy? Or does it merely mean that I subconsciously know he isn't real?

See what I mean about questioning everything?

"Edward," I say, because it's really the only way I can start. He obviously needs to be alerted to the fact that I'm talking to him and not myself or someone on the phone. For all I know, he can't actually see me. "Hi. I assume you know the situation." I feel more ridiculous by the second. "Just in case you don't, I'm getting a lot of flack because my parents and my psychologists think that you're just a figment of my imagination. And the fact that I have psychologists now and that they are psychologists plural is something that we need to take very seriously. They don't think you're real, and I don't have any way of proving that you are."

It's really strange to be talking earnestly to a stuffed animal.

I hadn't meant to end up looking down into the beaded eyes of Mr. Bear, I swear. But talking to the air in front of me or the mirror is a lot harder than I thought.

I continue, "So I guess what I'm saying is that I need you to help me out here. I need you to give either me or them some kind of sign. I suppose it would be too much to ask for an actual phone call, but I was thinking a note would be great. Or maybe we could reenact that scene in _Ghost_ and you could talk through someone else."

It's a joke, so I laugh—weakly.

Mr. Bear just stares at me. His expression does not look particularly encouraging. And he's most certainly not laughing. I quickly find that there's no elegant way to end a conversation with someone you can't see. So I go with the classic, "That is all."

Mr. Bear is not impressed.

"Bells, who are you talking to?" Charlie asks through the door. He sounds worried. I hadn't even heard him come upstairs.

"Myself," I mutter.

Before today, Charlie might have taken that to be an acceptable answer. He might have grunted and moved along down the hallway. But there are no acceptable answers any more, I suppose.

"Can I come in?"

Charlie sounds like he doesn't want to ask any more than I want him to come in.

"Sure."

I kick Mr. Bear off my bed and pick up a notebook from my night stand just as Charlie steps in to the room. He sits awkwardly on the edge of my bed, and I tense as the mattress dips to accommodate his weight.

"Bella, I just wanted to let you know that you can talk to me about this."

"No offense, dad, but I have plenty of people to talk to at this point."

He looks startled, and it occurs to me that he might be thinking that Edward is one of those people.

"I know. I know you do. But Bella, we've lived together under the same roof for a long time now. We stuck together when your mom left…I just wanted you to know that I'm going to stick by you through this, too."

My eyes prickle with unexpected tears. I know I should have just let it be the kind gesture of support that he means for it to be, but I sense an opening. I have to take it.

"You believe me, don't you?" I ask, my voice cracking. "You believe that Edward is real?"

This is Charlie. This is my Dad. This is the strong, brave man whom I've turned to for everything in my life, who has stood behind me quietly but firmly, no matter what I've reached for.

This man just looks at me, his melancholy eyes a deeper shade of sad.

"I believe _in_ you, Bella. I have faith in you, I love you, I would do anything for you." He pauses. "It's Edward I don't believe in."

I turn my face away, wordless. He grips my shoulder once and says, "We'll get through this, Bella."

Then he's up and leaving the room. I wait until the door closes softly behind him before I allow my tears to flow for the first time.

* * *

The cure for schizophrenia?

No such luck.

With an illness like this, you merely have treatment options to allow you to live a relatively normal, productive life. Can you guess which option my therapists recommend?

Therapy.

Lots and lots of therapy.

Therapy in the form of one-on-one sessions with each of the three Forks therapists (who all happen to have different specialties that all happen to be relevant to my particular case). Therapy in the form of required journaling (which will help "unearth the underlying trauma that has caused my imbalanced brain to fabricate an imaginary friend"). Therapy in the form of near-constant supervision and fewer hours spent reading books (which the psychiatrists assure my parents will only exacerbate my departure from reality).

Dr. K's favorite form of therapy is journaling.

"To write is to think," he says often.

For our first post-diagnosis session, I'm supposed to write and think about my earliest memory.

My earliest memory is of when I was four years old. Daddy had uncharacteristically allowed me to stay up past my bed time. I was settling in to watch a baseball game with the grown-ups. Mommy was puttering around in the kitchen making us some popcorn while I was arranging several couch cushions behind my back so that I could try and get my legs to touch the floor like Daddy's. They didn't.

I sat proudly beside him and watched the little men on TV dressed all in gray. I watched them very hard and tried to figure out what they were doing that would make Daddy so excited sometimes. Toward the middle of the game, I thought I'd figured it out, so I let out a shrill little yell.

The room went silent.

My parents' eyes shifted first to me, then to each other, and they burst out laughing.

"That's so precious!" Mommy had said, pulling on one of my pig tails.

To this day, I don't know what non sequitur little Bella had been cheering at. I only remember that she had felt safe and loved sitting between her two parents on that old couch, trying to pretend that she was a grown-up—just like them.

Oh snap.

I know exactly what this is going to look like.

Nevertheless, I begrudgingly present Dr. K with a copy of this week's journal entry the next day.

"So, Bella," he says after spending a few moments skimming down my handwriting. "Tell me about your Mom."

Told you.

"She's great, actually. A little flaky, but great."

"Do you find yourself holding any resentment toward her?"

"Not really."

"Any anger?"

"Nothing above what I imagine a normal teenage girl feels toward her mother."

"Hm," he says, and cogitates on that one for a while. I pass the time by following the plaid lines on his brown sock all the way to its hem, which is artfully displayed by his too-short pants.

"How did you feel when she left?"

"The usual. Sad. Disappointed. A bit confused. Charlie wasn't exactly, ah, clear on the subject at first."

His approach had been to tell me this long analogy about how a Mama Bear sometimes needs to leave her baby cub to fend for itself so that it learns to adapt. At the end of his story, he'd presented me with the teddy bear that I'd dubbed an emphatic _Mr._ Bear to ensure that it wouldn't also abandon me like a Mrs. Bear might have.

Only several years later did I realize that it is not socially acceptable for human Mamas to leave their children alone like animals in the wild. It was one of the moments I mentioned earlier, one of those moments in which I'd felt betrayed. But I got over it because I was old enough by then to understand Charlie's motive.

"So Charlie helped you get through it?"

"Not really. I mean, he was there and cared for my physical needs. But really, it was the other way around. I started cooking and cleaning for him as soon as I was old enough."

"And would you say that those activities helped you cope?"

Uh.

"Sure. And then, of course, there was always…"

Crap.

I was about to say "Of course, there was always Edward." He would never leave me, and I remember feeling comforted by that fact as I lay in my dark room after Renee left.

Double crap.

My mind is racing.

I know now exactly where Dr. K is going with this. I can follow his thoughts as clearly as if they are a dark train barreling across plains full of pure snow. Depending on how I answer his question, the doctor is going to posit that I fabricated Edward as a way of coping with my mother's abandonment.

Is that what I had done?

Had my four-year-old self been so traumatized by Renee's leaving that I'd subconsciously created Edward, my very own Harvey the six-foot rabbit?

I can't answer that question.

I can't answer that question because I remember sensing Edward ever since I can remember. And I can remember as far back as four years old. Renee was in that earliest memory that I wrote about, and I don't remember Edward in that particular snapshot of my mind. I don't remember thinking about him or wondering, as I often do, if he was out in the cold, alone.

My thoughts now race in circles. To use one of Charlie's favorite analogies, this is a good, old-fashioned pickle.

"There was always what?" Dr. K prompts.

"There was always Mr. Bear," I finish lamely. The doctor's eyebrows rise as though he should now add Mr. Bear to the list of reasons to be concerned about Bella Swan. "My teddy bear," I clarify. "To this day, I have a hard time sleeping without him nestled in my arms."

At my words, Dr. K's eyes glaze over like a little kid who's just been handed a gleaming Megatron Transformer toy. Sleep psychology is one of his specialties. There is an entire department of Forks Medical Center dedicated to sleep disorders, a department of which Dr. K is proudly the Chair.

Of course, I know this.

I've just thrown him a bone. I sleep without Mr. Bear just fine, thanks. But Dr. K reacts to my little white lie like a wild dog that hasn't eaten in weeks.

We spend the rest of the session discussing my minor sleep "disorder" and how it might factor into this whole business with Edward. Since I can't see any particular way that it does, my mind is free to contemplate whether I remember sensing Edward before Renee left.

My conclusions are bleak.

* * *

Edward, now would be a great time for a sign.

Any moment now.

* * *

The topic for my next session: What is my earliest memory of Edward?

I sit staring down at a blank page in my little red notebook. The only thing I've managed to write down so far is today's date. This question is significantly more difficult to answer than the last one. In a perfect world, my earliest memory would also have been one in which Edward was part of the scene. Or at least one in which he was on the periphery, as always, in which I was aware of him in some way. However, that had obviously not been the case.

Do I even have an earliest memory of Edward?

Don't get me wrong; I have lots of memories of Edward. Lots and lots. But it's hard for me to pick which one might be the earliest.

That's good, isn't it?

If I can't remember first meeting Edward, then might that mean that I never actually met him? That he had, in fact, been watching over me since I was born? Maybe even since before I was born?

The earliest thing I remember about Edward is the fact that, for a long time, he wasn't even _Edward_. For several years, I didn't have a name for him. He wasn't _Edward_ for a long time, not until the incident with the book. Mostly, he's just a feeling.

Is this how it is for most people?

From everything I've read on the internet, a name is often the first thing that children identify about an imaginary friend, followed shortly by appearance.

"This is Lucy," a girl would say. "She looks like my real best friend, Susie."

Or, "This is George," a boy would say. "He's a 2-inch tall monkey that wears red overalls and fits in my pocket."

But in my earliest memories of him, Edward is faceless and nameless. Once I learned his name, I eventually started putting a face to it.

Thanks to the incident in Port Angeles, I imagine him as a guardian angel. But not a blond-haired, blue-eyed cherub dressed in white surrounded by light. Those types of angels are the type that delight in making appearances. They sing in choirs. They herald grave tidings of great joy.

Somehow, that "I'm here, shining, and visible" vibe doesn't fit.

Instead, I picture Edward more like Lucifer's good twin (instead of the evil twin, get it?): sulking in the shadows, running free in the night; devilishly handsome—the perfect mix of James Dean, James Franco, and that dude who played Anakin Skywalker in _Star Wars_. I don't think _his_ name was James.

It would be just my luck if Edward actually looks like Clarence in _It's a Wonderful Life._ You never know; Edward is almost as ridiculous of a name as Clarence. For all I know, Edward's name really is Clarence. Maybe if I start ringing a lot of bells, I will get his attention. A cowbell, perhaps. I hear that you can never have enough cowbell. I also happen to know exactly where to find one.

But right now, what I really need to do is come up with an earliest Edward memory. I put my little red pen to the page of my little red notebook and start writing.

* * *

"Hm." Dr. K says, contemplative.

"Ah." Intrigued.

"Oh." Concerned.

This is Dr. K's scintillating play-by-play reaction as he reads my latest journal entry—the one about my earliest memory of Edward.

It just so happens that it's also a memory of Charlie. He had taken me fishing for the first time, a few weeks after Renee had left. Thinking back, I realize that he would have had to take me with him if he wanted to go fishing, for there would have been no one to watch me. It was a good couple of months before Charlie had started telling people that Renee was truly gone.

Maybe he'd thought she was going to come back.

I remember being excited to be clutching my little "fish stick" as I followed Charlie down to the water. I'd gleefully flailed that puppy about in imitation of what Charlie was doing, but I never managed to even cast my lure into the water. It usually landed in the nearest tree branch, on the grass behind me, or in my hair.

It was a child-safe lure. Probably.

Needless to say, I didn't catch any fish that day. Charlie didn't either, considering that all my flailing and splashing probably scared off every fish for miles. But that was the first day that I remember feeling Edward's presence.

Maybe that was another reason why Charlie didn't catch any fish.

I remember the sun was shining, the water was sparkling, and the breeze smelled faintly sweet. For the first time since my mother had left, I remember feeling like I was not alone. I felt the warmth of a presence somewhere in the woods. It didn't feel like a boogeyman or a wolf or anything scary like that. It felt like an angel.

When Charlie at last called it a day, I hadn't wanted to leave. He had to drag me, kicking and screaming, back to the car. That was the first and last time he ever tried to take me fishing. I'd screamed all the way home in the truck, where I wasn't sure that my angel could see me anymore. I wasn't sure that he would be able to find me again if I left the woods.

Somehow, I'd known it was a _he_.

I'd screamed until Charlie had deposited me onto my big-girl's bed in my room. I stopped screaming then because the air smelled like candy.

My angel was back.

Of course, in the cliff-notes version of this memory that I'm preparing for Dr. K, I don't refer to Edward as an "angel." Too weird.

"So the first time that you remember feeling Edward was a few weeks after your mother had left?"

"Yes." I'm not thrilled to confirm this potential correlation, but it's the truth.

Dr. K seems to sense my distaste for this topic and sits up straighter, which I know means that he's about to take a different tack.

"How do you know that Edward is real?" he asks.

Very philosophical of him. Two can play at this game.

"I just know."

To be clear, that was _not_ my attempt at being philosophical. I have to work up to my inner Socrates. Dr. K smiles a small, tight smile that I'm coming to know means he's trying to be patient. Or maybe he's merely trying to bite back his knee-jerk retort.

"You've never seen him," he says.

"No."

"You've never heard him."

"Not exactly, no."

"You've never touched him."

"Not that I know of."

"Then how do you know he's real?"

_Now_ I'm ready to be philosophical.

"The same way I know the wind is real," I say, gun-pointing toward the tree boughs waving tirelessly at us from the office window.

"I'm sorry…?"

"I can't see the wind. I can't touch the wind. But I can feel it. And I can see the effects of it."

I'm a smidge smug.

I can hear Dr. K's pen fairly dancing across his paper, and I miss my own pen. I miss my little red notebook. Dr. K politely requested that I not bring it to our sessions any more after he noticed that I spent more time writing than talking.

Such a waste.

"So you can feel Edward?"

"Yes."

"How do you feel him?"

"The same way that everyone feels someone behind them, watching them."

"Does he ever do anything besides watch?"

I hesitate. I know for a fact that he watches. I don't know anything else for a fact.

But I say, "I think so."

Dr. K stops writing, mid-word, and looks up.

"What other kinds of things does he do?"

I hesitate again, knowing that I will be crossing a line by answering this question honestly. But, as I've said before, I'm an honest person.

"He communicated with me once."

As I expect, Dr. K dissects the first half of that statement. "I thought you said he's never talked to you."

"He hasn't."

"Okay. How did he communicate with you?"

I think back to that day—the day with the book.

"He told me what his name was."

Dr. K just looks at me, his practiced eyes giving away no emotion. His gaze is always as benevolent and unyielding as a statue. Someday, I want to see him angry. Now, he's merely waiting patiently for me to continue.

"For a long time, I didn't know his name. I just felt him watching me. One day in middle school, I was sitting in my room and made some random comment that I should probably give him a name."

"You said this out loud?"

"Yeah. I tended to talk to him out loud then, before I noticed that none of my peers did the same."

I tell Dr. K about how, not five minutes later, the book that I was reading fell off my nightstand. To this day, I'm not sure if I had accidentally elbowed it as I was shifting positions or what. I heard the noise and looked down to see my copy of Jane Eyre open to a particular scene—the scene in which she first meets Edward Rochester in the woods.

It was perfect.

The name_ Edward_ was perfect.

"So this incident made you decide that his name was Edward?"

Dr. K's pen is doing that spazzy thing again.

"Yes. It fits," I say, shrugging.

"What other types of things has he done?"

I decide that this is about as much honesty as I can do today. If I tell Dr. K about Port Angeles, that will be as good as telling Charlie. I'm saved right then by the intercom beeping, the signal that Dr. K's secretary always gives us to indicate that our hour is up.

An hour has never seemed so long.

* * *

"How's therapy going?" Alice asks a smidge too casually.

We're in her room, our Yoga mats lined up perfectly side-by-side. I can tell from her tone that she's fishing for information. I've not told her the bogus schizophrenia theory. Maybe I think that by not telling her, by not saying it out loud, I'll ensure that it's not true.

Alice is performing one of her ridiculous Yoga inversions that somehow results in her feet standing on top of her head. I always feel an odd sense of vertigo looking at her in that pose, so I don't.

Instead, I stare straight at the wall in front of us, focusing on keeping myself upright in the move I'm currently trying to master—the Chair. And yes, it's exactly what it sounds like, me trying my best to squat on an invisible chair. Or go number two out in the woods.

Alice doesn't even flinch when the invisible chair falls out from under me for the third time in as many minutes. I don't flinch, either—I have an extra thick, extra squishy mat made especially for this purpose.

"Put it this way," I grump. "I'm as good at therapy as I am at Yoga."

"It's all in your breathing," Alice says, unfurling her legs slightly into the Scorpion pose.

"That's funny," I say, getting to my feet and focusing intently on the first phase of Chair—standing still. "Dr. K says it's all in my head."

"In Yoga, it's all in your breathing," Alice clarifies, now extending her legs smoothly up into a hand-stand. "In therapy, it's all in your delivery."

I wobble. I haven't even bent my knees yet.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that, if you want to get out of this, to go back to some semblance of a normal life, you're eventually going to have to start telling the shrinks what they want to hear."

"You mean that I agree with them about my diagnosis?"

"No. I mean about the symptoms that prompted the diagnosis in the first place."

"You're saying I should lie?"

"I like to think of it as telling a really good story."

I look over at her for the first time. Her head is at my feet, and her feet are at my head. She's the yin to my yang. It's symbolic—I'm her exact opposite in everything, including telling really good stories.

"You know I'm a bad liar," I mumble, teeth clenched as I fight to stay upright with my head turned.

"True," Alice agrees. "But with shrinks, it doesn't always matter. They'll be all over the fact that they've cured you."

I don't mention that what they think ails me can't be cured.

* * *

When school starts in September, I get to add yet another form of therapy to my burgeoning repertoire—group therapy. As if three hospital shrinks aren't enough, the school has one who specializes in teen angst.

Once a week, the mothers and/or fathers of five similarly troubled kids bundle them up, drive them to the wing of the Forks Medical Center dedicated entirely to that most mysterious of organs—the brain—and drop them off to experience the joy of group therapy.

I liken this to a father dropping a screaming first grader into the deep end of the swimming pool sans those little arm floaties. Either the kid will magically discover how to dog paddle, or the kid will drown.

The first evening that Charlie drops me off, I take one peek into the room into which I'm expected to enter, turn on my heel, and start booking toward the nearest exit.

I would have made it, too, had not someone grabbed my pony tail at the last second. When I recover from the sensation that my scalp is on fire, I notice that the person who has so delicately grabbed my hair is none other than Alice.

She's looking at me with her best fake Barbie smile. "If I gotta do this, so do you."

Well.

At least Alice and I can suffer through this together.

I step off the diving board and plunge into the deep end of crazy.

The scene hasn't changed since I last checked—people are moving around in a circle, flailing their arms and limbs in contorted slow motion, almost as though they are navigating an invisible obstacle course. As I watch, Tyler Crowley drops to his belly and starts doing the Army man crawl under an absolute nothing of thin air. As I watch, Alice joins in this bizarre dance. She starts whirling and twirling and toe-pointing. She makes crazy look easy. She makes crazy look graceful. She makes crazy look _good_.

A hippy-looking woman with golden hair to her waist and thick glasses contorts herself into my field of view.

"I'm Dr. Matthews," she says, "and we're expressing ourselves."

Hence the insanity of movement that I'm currently witnessing.

"Come join us!"

I smile politely and wonder if she would consider me flipping her the bird expressing myself. But I've done this therapy business for just long enough now to know that any gestures I make (no matter what they are) will likely be documented and catalogued and used later as unequivocal proof point that I am, indeed, nutso.

Dr. Matthews continues looking at me expectantly as she sticks her hands above her head and shimmies her hips, a genie coming out of a bottle.

I sigh and step into the circle.

As far as expressing myself goes, I'm not particularly good at it. It doesn't help that if I try to walk plus any other movement—talk, read, chew gum—I stumble (at best) and/or fall flat on my face (at worst). So I settle for a weird cross between skipping and power walking.

For a moment, Dr. Matthews regards my "self-expression" with a frown. Then she apparently decides to let me do my thing.

"Alright everyone," she says, clapping her hands twice. "Now when you pass someone, they are your dance partner for the next thirty seconds."

Gah.

Dancing.

I don't do dancing.

As everyone is about to find out.

Oddly, Tyler Crowley makes a beeline for my position in the circle. For some reason, he seems eager to dance with me. Granted, his enthusiasm dims substantially after I step solidly on his instep and subsequently elbow him in the cornea. I end my performance with a classic head butt and a knee to his groin.

After thirty seconds, Tyler stumbles away, clutching himself.

Alice cuts in, but she knows better than to dance too close to me. She opts instead for twirling around me like a ballerina. Or perhaps a stripper; I can't really tell. I'm more than happy to stand still and pretend that I'm her pole.

I'm more than happy when Dr. Matthews claps twice.

"Alright, let's form the healing circle."

Yes, let's.

At least that sounds more promising than this bizarre circle of Pan thing that we've been doing. I watch warily while everyone else sits on the floor and lies on their backs with the crowns of their heads pointing to the center of the circle.

Oh look, if only I had my camera, I could stand above the circle and forever capture this trendy moment brought to you by Crazy 'R' Us.

I slide gingerly into my slot. Over the next forty-five minutes, I discover how uncomfortable it can be to lie motionless on a hardwood floor. Yet I also discover how easy it is to talk about your feelings when you're sinking bonelessly into the ground and staring nebulously at a ceiling decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars and hand-painted replicas of the eight slash nine planets.

Not, of course, that I talk about my feelings. But the members of the group sure do. Tyler talks about the fact that he feels fat if he doesn't run twenty miles a day. No wonder he's so good at running. No wonder he's a bean pole. Ben talks about the fact that he sometimes gets so wrapped up in his love for all things kung fu that he forgets he _isn't_ a ninja.

Even Alice talks about her feelings at great length and with great gusto, although I'm 99% positive that she's borrowed said feelings from the latest novel she lent me—the novel that I'm having to sneak read under my covers at night with a flashlight.

After Dr. Mathews dismisses us for the evening, my peers pounce on me like I'm some kind of contraband. Since I had arrived late, they hadn't had a chance to interrogate me before the session. They make up for this now, asking the one question that is burning a hole in their minds: what has Isabella Swan done to earn a coveted therapy slot with none other than Dr. Mathews?

"I see dead people," I say flatly.

Everyone oohs and aahs.

Alice just gives me a little smile and nod. She understands that I don't want to tell these people about Edward. She understands that my relationship with Edward is something to be cherished, something special and private.

I know that she understands perfectly because she has provided the other members of the group with her own little cover story to protect Jasper.

She tells them she can see the future.

* * *

Eric Yorkie's review of this chapter: I'm the eyes and ears of this school. Of course I'm the first to discover those sneaky aliens.


	4. Port Angeles

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

All this therapy, and nothing is helping. My psychologists refuse to consider the idea that Edward is real, and I refuse to consider otherwise.

I just really, really need to prove it.

* * *

I persist in talking to Edward in various settings and on various topics. I talk to him in my room, in the girl's bathroom at school, and in the woods that nestle my house.

I tell him of my theories about what he is (angel), what Alice's theory is (succubus), and what Dr. K thinks (figment of an abnormally overactive imagination). I tell him about my latest counseling session and how stupid and small everyone is making me feel (despite how I'm trying to hide it). I respectfully request that he come forth and fix this.

But no matter where I speak or what I speak about, I don't see hide nor hair of Edward. He apparently has other plans, plans that don't involve me.

And he doesn't give me any kind of sign—no note, no phone call, no oddly face-like patterns in burnt toast or swirling coffee or the clouds in the sky.

Nothing.

I'm getting a little frustrated at this point.

It doesn't help that Renee's one-week vacation morphs into a semi-permanent residence. The morning after her extreme reaction to my diagnosis, I find her in the kitchen burning toast, all forced smiles and darting eyes. When she delivers my platter of semi-recognizable food, she informs me that she's made reservations at the Pacific Inn Motel here in Forks.

"I thought you said you had an appointment with the sun next week," I mumble around a mouthful of charred bread.

"Actually, I'm finding gray and dreary rather refreshing."

I nod amiably, as if that makes perfect sense. Internally, my hamster wheel goes into overdrive. It was bad enough when Renee was calling every day to pick my life to pieces; having her eagle eye my daily activities is asking for a true mental breakdown on my part.

I need to do something, and fast.

Since merely talking to Edward isn't getting me anywhere, I decide that I need to implement phase two of my plan. Phase two involves getting Edward's attention in some way other than using my voice.

For phase two, I need a partner in crime. A male partner, to be precise.

Therein lies my first hurdle.

I'm not exactly the type of girl who can crook a pointer finger for the boys to come running. Granted, I've had my share of puppy-dog crushes through the years, among them Mike Newton and Tyler Crowley. But I'm pretty sure that they are each going after me only because I'm one of the few girls at school who has actually told them "no" the first time they asked. And every subsequent time.

Plus, I've grown up with these boys. I've seen them cry and burp and sweat. I've seen acne cover their faces and chili bowls cover their heads and their arms when they were the girth of toothpicks. I know exactly who has dated whom and who has done what with whom while dating them. I can count on two fingers the boys from Forks High who I could possibly partner with for phase two—my pointer finger is Mike Newton and my middle finger is Ben Cheney.

And since Ben is clearly gaga about Angela, that leaves me one viable option.

Before you absolutely crucify me about Mike, let me explain. As far as boys at Forks High go, Mike isn't the absolute worst. If I had to pick the worst, I would probably go with Yorkie because of reasons that should be clear to you by now.

But Mike Newton…Mike is like the Backstreet Boys. You know their music, you can sing along, you might even like what they've got going on. Easy on the eyes, easy on the ears. But he's not the type of music I plan on listening to for the rest of my life. Despite the fact that he's friendly, familiar and relatively fun, he's not exactly my fire.

Plus, convincing Mike to go out on a date with me will not be…difficult.

As I'm about to demonstrate.

The Newton's bell announces my entrance. Because I don't immediately see anyone at the counter, I swing the door back and forth a couple more times. Ringing the bell and all that. Unfortunately, the noise doesn't get anyone's attention—other than Mike's.

He pokes his head around a doorway and beams when he sees me.

"The door was stuck," I say and let it close with a final jangle.

"Yeah, happens to me all the time." He waves dismissively, then plants his elbows on the counter. "Hey, there was something I've been meaning to ask you."

His standard greeting.

"What a coincidence," I say. "I also have something to ask you."

"Oh." He's surprised and pleased at my non-standard greeting. "Ladies first."

I can do this.

This being the point at which I'm supposed to open my mouth and ask Mike if he'd like to do something with me this weekend. I'm thinking something public, out in the open, perhaps a picnic in my backyard. Or perambulating through the town square. Somewhere that will allow Edward a front-row seat to all the late-breaking, jealousy-inciting action.

I can do this.

"I was wondering if…"

Mike's eyes are distractingly blue. And hopeful.

"…if perhaps you…"

Mike's eyes _blue_ at me some more.

"…if you have one of those Heddon lures."

I couldn't do it.

"Hm," Mike says, eying a nearby display upon which I already know hang no Heddon lures because of the last time I accompanied Charlie here to look for them. "Maybe. Let me go check the back."

I exhale in relief when those hopeful blue eyes are off looking for the unavailable lures. Despite what I had initially thought, I can't do this to him, can't bear to see the hope in his eyes blossom into full-out joy.

I tell myself that Mike is not a good candidate for phase two.

Edward wouldn't take him seriously.

* * *

Since my Backstreet Boy bombed, I have to expand my horizons. I have to look past the boundaries of Forks High. And I look no further than long-time childhood friend Jacob Black.

If Mike Newton is a boy band, Jacob Black is some classic rock group that you've listened to since the cradle. You know, one of those groups that your parents used to like and the reason why your house still has a record player. Nothing brings back those nostalgic memories like vinyl. If I had to chose, I would say that Jacob is like one of the Beatles, with his hippy hair and bright yellow submarine personality. And, like the Beatles, I've known him since I was born.

I suspect that Edward will take Jacob seriously.

As children, Jacob and I were forced together by our fathers' mutual love of baseball and fishing. We are the child of either a divorced or widowed dad; we have a lot in common. Until, of course, we hit puberty and realized that we have less in common than we thought. We go to different schools, we run with different packs. Or at least he does; I'm more of a lone wolf. And I don't run.

We never really had a falling out; it was more of a drifting apart. One day, I didn't come out of my room when the Blacks arrived to watch some big baseball game. The next time, Jacob didn't come to our house because he had another commitment for school. When the dads stopped insisting that we spend every available minute together, we stopped spending every available minute together.

Now, I realize that I haven't talked to Jacob Black in years aside from the occasional "Hey" when our paths happen to cross. I think the last time we'd spoken at length was when Charlie bought my truck from Billy. Jacob had given me a terse crash course (heh) in driving the thing and then had high-tailed it home.

When I approach Charlie for permission to drive out to the rez, he isn't too keen on the idea. I haven't exactly been doing a lot of driving on my own here recently.

"Please, Dad," I say. "It's Jacob."

Charlie's confused, and rightly so. "You haven't hung out with Jacob in years."

I was hoping he wouldn't remember that fact. "Yes," I agree slowly, "but he's practically family. And Billy will be there to keep an eye on me."

Well, I certainly hope he won't. When Charlie still doesn't seem convinced, I add, "I'm going stir-crazy here."

Charlie cracks, but just a little. Probably not from the excuse, but from my casual use of the word "crazy." You certainly don't want to force the crazy girl into activities that will in any way exacerbate her condition.

"Okay," he says, "but I'm going to give Billy a heads up."

Somehow I don't think this "heads up" is merely about the fact that I'm coming.

"Please…don't," I say, letting desperation seep into my voice. "I promise that Jacob and I will be good. I just want to hang out with a friend, someone who doesn't know about all…_this_." I wave my hand around my head in a gesture that could symbolize a halo but that we both know doesn't.

Charlie hesitates.

I say, "I don't want Jacob and his dad to look at me funny."

Bingo.

"Alright," he says, voice soft. "That's fine. Take your cell and remember to call me every so often, okay?"

Translation: If I don't hear from you every hour, I'll be sending the entire police force out to look for you.

"Got it. Thanks, Dad."

When my truck wheezes up to the Black's little red cabin, Billy is sitting on the porch. I'm not surprised; my vehicle isn't exactly designed for stealth.

"Bella," he says, his eyebrows high. "It's good to see you. Don't tell me Charlie sent you to try and weasel me out of one of my Heddon lures."

"No," I say. "I'm actually here to see Jacob."

"He's out in the garage," he says carefully, flicking his head in the direction I should go. His expression is almost blank, but a pleased kind of blank, the blankness I now remember that Billy and Charlie always affect when Jacob and I spend time together.

Suspicious. Yet so amazingly helpful.

"Thanks."

The garage smells of lubricant and shaved metal and something decidedly male, though not unpleasant. I step through the doorway and see a large form hunkered over a motorcycle frame propped up on cinderblocks. The person is sporting so much height and so much hair that I'm almost not sure it's him.

"Hi," I say.

The person whirls and knocks over a box full of tools that protest loudly against the concrete.

"Oh," the person says, ignoring the mess. Now that I can see his face, I see that it is, indeed, Jacob's face. But he looks…different. The last time I remember seeing him, he was all short and round and cuddly.

Now he's…not.

"You're Bella, right?" he says. Even his voice is different. Deep and tingly.

"And you're funny."

He smiles. "_I_ think so. What brings you out to my neck of the woods?"

There's something in the way that he's looking at me, something in the way that he's not annoying the snot out of me like most guys my age…I decide to give it to him straight. "I'm looking for someone to be illicit with, and I was hoping that someone could be you."

Jacob's eyes do that glazed thing.

"Uh…"

Too much? Too soon? I plow on quickly, "Mostly, I just need to get out of the house, you know?"

"Oh," he says, relaxing. "Yeah. I completely understand. That's why I'm in the garage."

We smile at each other. Standing in front of someone who looks like _this_, I should probably feel awed and intimidated. But I don't. Although I'm sure Jacob could do intimidated rather well should he so choose, he's not choosing to do so now.

Actually, he's the one looking a little intimidated.

And that won't do.

So I ask, "What's that?" I'm looking at the metallic skeleton he'd been laboring over when I walked in.

Instantly, he lights up. "This," he says, patting the frame with a flourish, "is going to be the fastest dirt bike in the Pacific Northwest. And that one," he says, gesturing to a more unfinished structure nearby, "will be Quil's."

I laugh. "How come Quil doesn't get a fast bike?"

"Because he doubted my mad mechanic skills. We found these bikes at the junkyard over the summer, and he dared to tell me that he didn't think I could get them working."

I decide not to ask if they often hang out in junkyards.

"Can you?"

He smiles smugly and flips a switch. In this confined space, the roar of the bike's engine rivals the roar of my truck. But then Jacob's smile melts away when the noise sputters dramatically and dies.

He tries to cover with, "As you can see, it still needs a little work."

My adrenaline is going from the lion's roar of the bike and the idea of speed and of my arms wrapped around the tight torso only thinly obscured by a tight shirt…

"Do you need any help?"

"That depends. Do you happen to have some mad mechanical skills I don't know about?" he teases.

"Well, no." I remember how quickly I _didn't_ learn to use the clutch on the truck. "I'm zero mechanical, but maybe I could drive you around to get parts or something."

The silence in the garage is so complete that we can hear crickets chirping. Oddly, this seems significant.

"If you think it's stupid—"

"I think it's the furthest thing from stupid." His face is smooth, but his eyes gleam.

"Great." And it really was. "When can we start?"

"How about now? I was actually just about to make a supply run for..." He glances over the tools spewed on the ground. "…a wrench."

"Great. We can take my truck."

As we're walking out of the garage, Jacob side-kicks something that flashes and clatters as it goes sailing under a dilapidated red car.

I smile because I'm pretty sure it was a wrench.

* * *

As I'm keying the ignition, he asks, "So how have you been, _loca_?"

Funny how it only takes an instant to shatter tentative camaraderie. In the same instant, my truck sputters and dies as dramatically as had the bike.

I stare straight ahead, through the windshield. "Did you just call me crazy in Spanish?"

From my periphery, I can see Jacob eying me warily. "I did."

"Did Charlie say something to you?" I clip out. I feel hurt, like Charlie doesn't trust me, like he had told me one thing and done another…

"No," Jacob says slowly, and I belatedly realize that I've given him dots to connect. But then he merely says, "It's kinda my thing, calling people crazy in Spanish."

"Oh." Charlie hadn't betrayed me after all. Relief makes unexpected tears prickle at my eyes. I turn my head to the left, away from Jacob entirely, until they're under control.

"Why, is that weird or something?" His tone is guileless, as though his choice of nickname is purely coincidental. Guess he's not really a connect-the-dots type of person. Exactly the type of person I need right now.

I turn back to him and smile weakly, falsely. "I thought that if you were going to call someone crazy, you would probably do it in Quileute."

My explanation sounds flimsy, even to my ears, but Jacob doesn't push. Instead, he says lightly, "Normally, you'd be right. Problem is, the Quileute word for _crazy_ is five syllables long and translates roughly to 'cow with rolling eyes and lolling tongue.' _Loca_ is more efficient."

"I appreciate you not calling me a cow."

"No problem."

As easy as that, we're comfortable again. At the hardware store, we goof off down each aisle—wear washers for eyeglasses, stick pressure gauges up our noses, sandpaper each other's butts. When Jacob starts pretending to hit home runs with two-by-fours, the guy behind the counter finally looks up from his magazine to ask if he can help us with anything. Jacob answers a solemn "Yes" and sidles over to the counter with his shiny new wrench.

Jacob walks away from our afternoon with a tool that he didn't really need, and I walk away with something I didn't even know I did—a normal, clueless friend.

* * *

When I get home, Charlie and Renee are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, looking up at me nonchalantly as I step into the house.

"How's Jacob?" Renee asks.

"Buff."

"That's great!" she enthuses, not quite processing my answer.

My parents are pleased that I'm spending time outside my room.

My room is not.

I walk in and everything looks exactly the same…yet different. I can practically feel the waves of disapproval from Mr. Bear, who is nestled on my pillow, staring fixedly at me. My room's familiar scent is strong, almost cloyingly strong. And since when has there been a macabre trio of naked, beheaded Barbies pinned to my bulletin board?

Oh, right. I had gone all Queen of Hearts on the Barbie's heads several years ago after realizing that Renee was not coming back. She could braid their hair so nicely, but she didn't stick around long enough to teach _me_. The things you never learn when your mother abandons you...

The abnormally ominous ambiance of my room is not exactly a sign, but it's _some_thing. Something I hope means that Edward does not approve of my spending time with Jacob.

So of course, I start spending all my time with Jacob. I fit him in between school and therapy, I hang out in the garage and do homework, I even start calling him some evenings. I'd gone in to fraternize with a boy in an attempt to make Edward jealous. I find instead that I truly enjoy spending time with this boy. When I'm with Jacob, I can almost forget about Edward. I don't feel like I'm being watched by anything except dark eyes. My skin doesn't tingle unless I happen to brush his while handing him tools.

Charlie and Renee are thrilled.

"Jacob's a good kid," Charlie asides one morning as he's leaving for work.

I couldn't agree more.

Too bad I'm going to make this good kid go bad.

* * *

"Why didn't you come out of your room the night of the World Series?"

I blink. I'm sitting on a folding chair in Jacob's garage, holding my knees as I watch him (i.e., ogle the muscles in his back as he works that wrench). Jacob's tone is casual, almost too casual. And he's not looking at me.

"You remember that?"

"Of course I do. The day before, I tried to hold your hand for the first time."

Um, what? "You tried to hold my hand?"

"Yeah, we were taking a walk through the woods, and I stepped close and went for first."

I frown. "Are you talking about that time I tripped over a rock and fractured my ankle?" I distinctly remember that day because Jacob had to carry me nearly a mile home.

"Well…yeah. But I thought you 'tripped' because you were trying to get away from my hand."

No wonder Jacob had been so frantic about my little mishap. Here I'd thought that we'd drifted apart, and Jacob thought that I'd catapulted him from our relationship as effectively as I'd catapulted myself over a rock.

He says, "I assumed you didn't come downstairs because you wanted to make it clear that you didn't like me in that way. I wanted to see what you would do if I didn't show up next time. You did nothing."

"Huh," I say. Isn't it amazing how two people can see the same event through very different eyes?

I'm distracted from further contemplation of our little misunderstanding by an odd sound.

"What's that noise?" I demand.

He looks up at me for the first time, both startled by my rapid change of topic and alarmed at my tone. "I don't hear anything."

I'm frozen, staring into the trees. "There it is again. Turn off the music."

He grumbles something about it only being the best song ever but reaches to switch off the radio anyway. We sit quietly for a long time, listening intently. Is Jacob hearing what I'm hearing? That rustling in the trees? That strange, tuneless melody that reminds me of my failed attempt at playing the glockenspiel (aka xylophone) in an empty band room last year?

He's frowning, muscles taught. "All I hear are birds."

_Birds_. I'm hearing birds. And earlier, I had heard crickets.

"Never mind," I say. "It was just the birds."

I haven't heard birds or crickets in a long, long time.

"Geez, Bella, you scared me," Jacob said, mock-clutching his heart. "I thought I was going to have to leap to your defense against some weirdo stalker in the woods."

Huh.

I wish.

"To be clear," I say, picking up where we'd left off, "I trip all the time; don't take it personally."

"Okay," he says and turns back to his work to hide his sudden glow.

Message received.

* * *

Thanks to Jacob, my life is…better. Not great, not like before, but better.

Despite the fact that Edward remains stubbornly silent and non-present, I'm starting to feel like maybe this whole thing could blow over anyway. Look how great Bella is doing, even without the meds. Look how normal and social she's being. See how she hasn't mentioned Edward in weeks? There's no possible way that Bella has schizophrenia.

Charlie and Renee no longer watch me as closely or treat me as carefully as if they think I'm going to crumble to dust at the slightest pressure. Charlie stops trying to hide his smile when I tell him I'm off to the Black's. He no longer requires me to call in every hour. Renee has even been dropping hints about really missing her sunglasses.

Then, of course, I make a mistake.

I let my guard down around Dr. K. I've become so comfortable that I'm not as focused on our sessions, not listening as carefully to his questions, not giving him the answers he's expecting to hear.

One day, I'm telling Dr. K about Jacob. I'm prattling along about how well Jacob's bikes are progressing and how I'm learning more than I ever wanted to know about the anatomy of an engine and does he know that Jacob is like the Beatles?

That last part sorta slipped out.

Dr. K is startled. "Jacob is like the Beatles?"

"Yes."

"Do you categorize many of your friends as musical groups?"

I think about this for a second. "Just the male ones, I guess."

Alice would be a piccolo, so she doesn't count.

Dr. K's eyes are oddly bright. "And what is Edward?"

I sit very still. The dear doctor hasn't mentioned Edward in some time. Although he asked this question as casually as he does every question, something tells me that there's nothing casual about it.

If I were to answer, I would tell him that Edward is a complex classical piece in a minor key, a tangled web of sound that requires an umpteen number of iterations to even begin to decipher. And each time you listen, you hear something new, some small riff buried within the primary melody. You know that there's something there, some substance superseding your grasp.

But I know better than to tell him this.

"I don't know what Edward is," I hedge, hoping that he'll drop it.

He doesn't.

Instead, he sighs. "Bella," he says. There's a tone in his voice I haven't heard before. He sounds almost…bothered. As if to punctuate the gravity of his next statement, he removes his glasses. He looks weird without them, like he's an entirely different person. Or an alien.

"If you're not going to take our sessions seriously," he says, "there's not much I can do to help you."

I frown because, although I'm _not_ taking therapy seriously, I've worked very hard to ensure my actions show otherwise. I do everything I'm asked. I complete the journal assignments I'm given. I answer all questions honestly, although not necessarily thoroughly.

Interpreting my frown correctly, Dr. K continues, "You're going through the motions, Bella. In fact, you're going through them so well that you have your parents fooled. They think you're doing better. They like the fact that you're hanging out with Jacob and that you don't spend all your time up in your room."

He leans forward. "But you and I, we know better, don't we?"

His question is the first snaking of fear into my stomach.

He says, "You just told me that you don't know what Edward is. Edward _is_, Bella. As in, present tense. As in, Edward exists."

The snake in my stomach starts swallowing my internal organs.

He says, "So my question for you is this: Are you taking this seriously, Bella? Are you taking your condition seriously?"

And I look into his earnest, alien gaze and want so badly to lie. Until now, no one has asked me this question point blank. No one has backed me into a corner and forced me to acknowledge the truth.

"No," I whisper.

Surprise flickers briefly on his face before his professionalism tamps it out.

"Why not?" he asks calmly.

"Because this is all a bit ridiculous."

"What is?"

"This whole thing, everything. It's all been made into this really huge deal. I don't exhibit a majority of the symptoms of schizophrenia. No one has even stopped for one second to consider that this might be something else."

"Like what?"

I open my mouth, but words run and hide. I don't have an answer. I still don't know what Edward is. I still don't know why he's watching me. I have all kinds of increasingly complicated theories, but none of them fits.

Dr. K. regards me with something that looks suspiciously like pity. At last, he says gently, "Bella, after talking with you the past several months, I'm more convinced than ever that you are exhibiting early onset schizophrenia."

He's referring to the fact that the symptoms of schizophrenia sometimes manifest themselves in later teenage years (i.e., right around my age).

"That doesn't make sense," I deny immediately, shaking my head. "I've felt Edward my whole life, not just recently."

"Have you?"

Silence stretches for a moment.

"Yes…" I'm confused, disoriented, not sure where he's going with this.

"Charlie recently told me that you started behaving differently after the incident in Port Angeles. A few months later, he first heard you talking to Edward in your room."

"What?"

Charlie has never said anything like this to me. Breathing has suddenly become difficult.

"He said that after Port Angeles, you became moody, stopped eating well, spent most of your time reading."

"That's right around the time I became a teenage girl," I splutter, as if that explains everything. "And I've always done a lot of reading."

"Charlie said he'd never once heard you talking to yourself before."

Before Port Angeles, he means.

Breathing has suddenly become impossible. Everything is crushing, bruising, grinding. I know where Dr. K is going with this. I know _exactly_ where Dr. K is going with this.

Earlier, he'd postulated that I'd fabricated Edward as a way of coping with my mother leaving. Apparently, he's since come up with a revised hypothesis supported by new data from Charlie. Dr. K thinks that I fabricated Edward as a result of the trauma of Port Angeles.

Is that what I'd done?

Is it possible that this all started that evening in Port Angeles?

The summer before eighth grade, Alice and I had gone on one of those mixed-gender outings that were all the rage that summer, at least for the girls. The boys seemed to just endure it.

We had gone to watch a movie in Port Angeles, some action movie with motorcycles and explosions, the only way the girls had convinced the boys to go in the first place. After the show, we'd tumbled out of the theater to wait for Lauren's mom to come pick us up. Mike and Tyler promptly started to roughhouse in an awkward, gangly recreation of what they had just witnessed on the big screen.

The fight scenes in the movie had looked cool. Mike and Tyler did not.

Alice rolled her eyes at them and pulled on my arm until we were standing in front of a nearby dress shop a few blocks away. She proceeded to point out in excruciating detail why the particular cut or color of each prom dress was sorely lacking. She said that she would be wearing her own design for our prom and that she'd be honored if I'd let her dress me, too.

"Sapphire," she said, "to contrast perfectly with your dark hair and alabaster skin."

I smiled at her contextually—although not realistically—appropriate use of the word _alabaster_, which had been our favorite new word in the turn-of-the-century novels we'd taken to reading as of late.

Eventually, I realized that I could no longer hear The Mike and Tyler Show above the occasional car heading home for the night. The last thing I'd heard was one of them telling the other that he was going to blow his head off. I looked over, and there was no group from Forks waiting in front of the movie theater. There was no group from Forks anywhere down the street. There was no group from Forks anywhere, period. In fact, the street was starting to look uncomfortably empty.

Later, we would hear that Lauren's mom had miscounted the number of heads that piled into her van. To this day, I contend that Lauren might have "helped" her mom miscount. I contend this because, after we'd mopped up the spilt milk of this particular situation, Lauren had cried the hardest of all. And she had been abnormally nice to Alice and me for weeks afterward.

But right then, Lauren was nowhere to be seen.

"Alice," I said, at about the same time that a new voice spoke.

The voice said, "Well hello there, little ladies." Turning, we saw that the voice belonged to a man.

We didn't say "hello" back. We knew better than to talk to strangers. Particularly a stranger who was looking at us like we were something to eat.

Alice gripped my hand tightly, and we power-walked away from the guy.

Unfortunately, the guy had friends. And this guy and his friends were on the prowl. They were the hunters, and we were clearly their prey. Alice and ducked down a side alley, thinking that we could cut through and double back around to the well-lit streets in front of the movie theater.

We were wrong.

The side alley unhelpfully dead-ended into your stereotypical red brick wall. The guys followed us with the lazy swagger of predators who have their prey cornered. The guys were loud. The guys were rude. The guys had clearly downed one or twenty too many beers.

"C'mon, ladies!" the loudest and drunkest of them said, strutting forward. "We just want to show you a good time."

Something told me that their idea of a good time probably didn't mesh with that of an eighth grade girl's.

"Bella," Alice whimpered.

"Alice," I whimpered.

And then we gripped each other's hands harder and turned to face the strutting males. Everything after that was kind of a blur. The guys circled us, taunting us, teasing us, touching us.

I remember saying, "Don't touch me."

I remember Alice turning into a veritable hellcat beside me, biting one of their fingers when the guy didn't heed my warning.

I remember trying to punch another one in the face. I remember my scrawny little fist connecting with the guy's neck. I remember screaming for Edward.

And then I remember my punch sending the guy backward into his buddies, the force of his fall scattering them like bowling pins.

Then they danced.

I don't know how else to describe it. They kept trying to scramble to their feet and they kept knocking into each other and falling down and the wind kept gusting and my hair kept flying into my face.

When Charlie asked later, I told him it was because they were drunk. I didn't know how to explain the wind.

As the guys danced, a silver mini-van screeched to a stop at the curb in front of the alley.

"Get in the car, girls!" Lauren's mom bellowed, brandishing her pepper spray in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

When the cops arrived, the guys lay face-down in a puddle, unconscious. From what I heard, the Clallam county judge showed no mercy.

Edward's name didn't come up in the police questioning. No one asked if my friend had saved me, had saved us, so I just assumed that everyone knew.

Now, I'm not so sure my assumption was correct.

Did I imagine what had happened that night in Port Angeles? Was the event so traumatic to my pre-pubescent mind that I fabricated Edward as a magical savior who caused those guys to bumble and stumble, when in fact it was nothing but the magic of drink? Had I merely back-filled Edward into my life after my subconscious willed him into existence?

Dr. K clearly thinks so.

Me? I don't know what to think anymore. More than anything, I want to believe in an angel who found me by a creek. I want to believe that something has compelled him to watch over me my entire life. I want to believe that he's kept me safe.

I want to believe in Edward.

But Edward doesn't seem to want me to believe.

Dr. K says, "Renee asked me not to tell you this, but—given your skepticism about your situation—I think it best if you know the real reason why I'm fairly sure of your diagnosis."

I focus on breathing, in, out, in, out. Something tells me I'm not going to like this "real" reason.

"As you know, schizophrenia is a hereditary disease."

I do know this from my extensive research on the subject, but I had discounted the detail as irrelevant to my case.

Dr. K says, "Your family, you see, has a history of schizophrenia."

I frown because I can't think of anyone else in the family who…

Oh.

Oh no.

Nononononononono.

Why do I always know where he's going with this?

He goes, "Renee's mother, your Gran, also suffered from schizophrenia."

* * *

Mike Newton's review of this chapter: I would make an excellent Backstreet Boy. And I hear they're one man down.


	5. Effects of the wind

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

My memories of Gran are hazy.

I remember holding Renee's hand as we stepped inside a little house so overgrown with bushes and creeping vines that it almost wasn't a house; it was a never never land. A land of curious clutter and shiny dangles and a myriad of items my four-year-old tongue could not name.

"Look, but don't touch," Renee would remind me as we wended through the maze to find Gran rocking herself by the window.

The times when Gran would look up and smile and call me by name, those were the best times. She would hold out her wrinkled hand and squeeze and show off her latest hat or scarf or socks made out of bright, tight yarn. Those times, Renee would leave me sitting with her and would go wash dishes or make tea or strip the bed. At Gran's, my mother was always working.

While Renee was busy, Gran would ask me about this or that or have me put my finger here or there as she crafted her latest masterpiece. Sometimes, we talked about her garden, with its black earth and green buds and ripe red. Once, as we peered out the window at her little patch of earth, Gran had asked, "Do you see him?"

I had nodded, smiling and pointing at the fat tabby sunning himself between her tomatoes, eyes slit, tail curling lazily.

"Fat cat," I lisped between my prematurely missing front teeth—the curse of the clumsy.

Just then, Renee surged over, slapping my hand down, pulling me away from the window, away from Gran.

"She doesn't see anything," Renee had snapped, the only time I'd ever heard her use that tone in this place. It was true; the cat was gone, scared away by the sudden movement.

Gran merely smiled at me, her kindness staying my tears. "Children often see what their elders can't."

In those times, Gran looked at me like I was her special girl, like we had a shared secret. Those were the good times. But other times, she looked at me when we arrived but saw something else. She sat still and vacant in her rocking chair, colored yarn a snarl at her feet. Those times, Renee kept me close, letting me "help" with her weekly tasks.

I remember that, although Renee always smiled wide while we were at that little house, she often cried when we left. And I never knew why. Never once had anyone told me that Gran was sick. Never once had I heard the word "schizophrenia."

Now, I know.

I know why Gran often asked me odd questions that other adults didn't. I know why Gran sometimes looked right through me. I know what she had hoped I could see in the garden.

More to the point, I know why Renee had been immediately concerned about me speaking to an invisible boy named Edward. Why she was nearly incapacitated by my diagnosis. Why she had never once questioned the conclusions of my therapists.

The drive home from Dr. K's office is hazy. As hazy as my memories of Gran. As hazy as Gran herself likely was. As hazy as I'm apparently predestined to be…

When I arrive back at the house, I let the front screen close more forcefully than normal. I drop my backpack heavily to the entryway floor. My parents look up from where they are watching TV. In the living room. Together. Something they have been doing entirely too much here recently. It's eerily domestic and disturbing.

"Everything okay, honey?" Renee asks sugar-sweetly, as though it's not perfectly clear that no, everything is not okay.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I demand.

I rarely raise my voice, so it's shocking when I do.

"Bella, what's this about?" Charlie asks.

I ignore him, honing in on Renee. "Why didn't you tell me?" I repeat. I can see from the way the sugar on her face melts that she knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"What are you talking about?" she hedges.

Of course she wants me to spell it out for her. You know, in case I'm not actually talking about what she thinks I'm talking about.

"Why didn't you tell me about Gran?"

The room goes silent. Charlie looks at Renee, eyes wide. He looks at her as if he's waking from a long winter's nap. As if he hadn't thought of Gran in a long, long time. If he had once known about her, about her condition, he had clearly forgotten. No wonder he'd been so jovial with me over the past several months, so quick to smile and wink and commiserate with me about it all.

Like me, he'd been missing something.

Unlike me, it wasn't his sanity.

"Charlie, can you give us a minute?" Renee asks, but she's looking straight at me.

We're going to need a whole lot more than a minute. Charlie knows this, and he disappears down the hall with a parting look at my face. He looks about as happy as I feel.

When he's gone, when it's just us girls, just a mother and her daughter, I repeat, "Why didn't you tell me?"

A real mother would have told me. Then again, a real mother wouldn't have left.

She lifts herself slowly from the couch, steps to be closer to where I stand on the fringe. She says, "At first, I didn't want to worry you. I was sure you were just depressed, going through normal teenage trouble, guy stuff. I didn't think that it could possibly be—"

"How about when you found out it was?" I jump in. "Why didn't you tell me then?"

She looks even more small, more sad. "I didn't want you to go into this feeling defeated before you'd even begun."

What, so I could feel doubly defeated later? Allow my hopes to go up up up only to come crashing down down down?

Focus, I tell myself. Focus on facts. Facts are always better than fears and failures and fairy tales.

"When was Gran diagnosed?"

"In her late twenties. After she had me." She looks away to hide pain, but I don't even have to wonder what Renee must have felt losing her mother when she was young. I already know.

Fact: Gran's symptoms manifested later than mine.

"Did she have an imaginary friend?"

"She had several, I think."

Fact: I have one. I wonder if one of her friends was a boy named Edward. I wonder if perhaps I'm going to someday meet a girl named Jane and a Lambert the friendly lion. Maybe it's only a matter of time. Maybe imaginary friends are hereditary. Maybe that's why Gran always smiled like she knew my secrets.

In my memory, her smile no longer seems so kind.

I press on. "Could she see them?"

"Yes. Before she died, she couldn't see anything else."

Fact: I can't see Edward.

Fact: I've never seen Edward.

Fact: I may never see Edward.

Renee takes a step.

She says, "You've always been the most normal, down-to-earth person in our family…"

She takes a step.

She says, "If anyone were to have schizophrenia, it should have been me." She seems agonized, but I've got her beat. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so, so, so sorry."

I'm sorry, too.

She steps, and she's close enough to give me a hug, to wrap me in her arms.

But it's too little, too late.

Stiffly, I take my own step, a step back. Rejection registers on her face, and I'm looking at this face, and I'm thinking that this is what my face must have looked like—the day she rejected me.

"You should have told me," I say. Her face falls, her arms wilt, and I'm gone, escaping to the waiting arms of Mr. Bear.

Fact: Mr. Bear couldn't close his arms if he tried.

* * *

I'm trying to sleep. A feat that I'm finding particularly difficult given the ever-increasing likelihood that I'm crazy.

_Crazy? I was crazy once…_

That viral rhyme that Alice and I found so hysterical in first grade has suddenly become anything but funny.

The sun hasn't set, but this is one of those days that just needs to end. My curtains are yanked shut and my door is locked and I'm curled up fetal with covers pulled over my head. It's warm and dark and my breathing is deep and my eyelids are heavy and…

My phone rings.

Correction, my phone sings: _Somewhere over the rainbow…_

That's Alice; she fancies being off over a rainbow somewhere. Although now is not exactly talk time, I know better than to ignore her call. I've lost too much at this point; I don't want to lose her as a friend, too.

I answer the way she expects, "Way up high." Of course, I don't sing.

"Bella," Alice says, her voice even more tinny than usual through the phone. She also sounds excited and/or frantic.

"What?" I sound neither. After today's revelations, I don't have the energy to bring the cell phone to my ear. It lies on my bed in front of my face.

"Bella, I need to talk to you," the tiny, tinny voice says. "Right now."

"Good thing we _are_ talking." I burrow my face into the comforter.

"Are you burrowing into the comforter?"

I arch my back to lift up. "No."

"You were," Alice chides. "And this is not something we can talk about over the phone. Meet me at the rendezvous in fifteen minutes."

"I don't think—"

But Alice has already hung up.

The rendezvous? We haven't gone there in years. Despite my supreme reluctance to leave the safety of my room, I know I must. Although Alice might be summoning me to show off her newest hair color (she's not fully sold on her recent change to red), it could be something else. Something important.

I could use something important right about now.

So I slink downstairs, only to find that the 'rents are not visible in any of their usual haunts. Perfect. I wasn't planning on asking their permission anyway. I do, at least, leave a note. I'm not interested in being grounded for the rest of my life.

Then I set off through the woods toward the rendezvous. We call it that, but really it's a dilapidated tree fort that one of my former neighbors must have built when we were little. I vaguely remember the couple in the now-empty house closest to us having a little boy. I remember him because he once ate dog food in an attempt to impress me. He didn't.

As I approach the familiar, gnarled tree, I can tell from the silence of the forest that Alice is not yet here. I circle the tree, a hand tracing grooves in its bark. My memory of this place far exceeds reality; the fort looks less impenetrable than I recall, the wood more dessicated.

I don't have long to wait in the creeping quiet. Unlike me, Alice fairly flies across the forest floor and doesn't have mud stains on the knees of her jeans. She's also wearing a white coat, something I could _never_ pull off. White clothes in general are a no-go for someone like me in this wet, muddy climate.

When she draws near, I see that Alice is still a ginger, her bright hair rivaled only by the expression on her face. Her lips are straining to stay closed. As she places a booted foot on the lowest board nailed into the trunk, I sigh.

"Can't we have this conversation down here?" Despite me being taller, the ladder still reaches far too high.

"No," Alice says over her shoulder as she spirits herself up the hatch.

I guess I understand. We've had every important conversation of our life in this tree. We discussed our first crush, first period, first kiss. Well, we'd discussed _her_ first kiss. The tree is still waiting to hear about mine.

Ten minutes later, after I've slowly and meticulously hauled myself up the ladder with much scrabbling at bark and much grasping of Alice's hand, I perch carefully in the dead center of the remaining flooring and just breathe for a while.

"Okay," I say after I've recovered enough from the feeling of wanting to faint due to my vertigo. "What is it?"

"Bella," Alice says, picking up right where our phone conversation left off. "I saw him!"

Him.

I know there is only one _him_ to which she can possibly be referring. I feel faint all over again, but for an entirely different reason.

"No, you didn't," I say.

She can't possibly have seen him.

She frowns. "Yes, I did."

"Alice, I don't know what you saw, but you can't possibly have seen _him_."

Her frown deepens, and she's starting to dig in. "Yes, I _did._" She's not used to me contradicting her. She's not used to me showing anything but the highest level of enthusiasm when it comes to Edward. She has absolutely no idea what's going on.

And I…I can't tell her. I can't explain to Alice that she can't possibly have seen Edward because Edward is nothing more than a glitch in my brain. I can't convince her that she hasn't seen my glitch without basically accusing her of having her own.

Best tread carefully.

"You saw Jasper?"

Please, please let her have merely seen Jasper. Jasper is not my problem. Jasper is hers.

"No," she said. "I saw _Edward_."

At his name, I feel faint again, but this time for a completely different reason. Three reasons, to be exact. One, if Edward is merely a glitch in my brain, then why did Alice see him? How is she somehow able to tune into my anomalous frequency? Two, although I love her to death, Alice's testimony on this subject is…suspect. And three…

Oh, three.

Three is the fact that I'd asked Edward to show himself to me—to give me a sign. And he doesn't show and doesn't show and then he shows himself to Alice?

Really?

How _dare_ he.

Forget faint, I'm now furious.

But I fight not to let the anger in my chest bleed into my face. Alice is off down her rabbit hole; she isn't focused enough to understand where I'm coming from.

"How do you know it was Edward?" I say, trying to stay calm.

"Because Jasper called him Edward."

Forget _a_ beat, my heart skips three. Did Alice truly hear Jasper calling Edward _Edward_? Or are the blue of my delusions beginning to mix with the red of Alice's, creating a purple palace in the sky in which we both now live together?

Focus.

Facts.

"Tell me exactly what you saw. Tell me where you were when you saw it. Tell me everything."

The combination of adrenaline and fear and anger causes my heart to pound painfully in my chest. I can hardly breathe.

"Well," Alice begins, looking past me into the forest, her eyes going all fuzzy like they do when she's thinking about these visions of hers. "I was drawing in my room. You know how drawing lets me focus."

I nod. Sometimes it's hard to get her attention when she's working on a particularly elaborate sketch.

"I'd decided to start working on my most difficult sketch ever—a man standing in a room full of mirrors. The man is standing with his back to me, and his face is reflected infinitely in the mirrors surrounding him. I've been trying to draw each incarnation of his face perfectly, so it's been slow going.

"After lunch today, I was suddenly in the zone. His slightly crooked smile and nose were perfectly crooked each time. His heavy brows arched just right. I was working on his hair—which I realized that I'd been trying to draw too tame for the rest of his face—when suddenly I wasn't seeing my drawing any more.

"I was seeing his face—his real face."

I've got chills, they're multiplying.

"Was it Jasper?" I whisper, so faintly that my voice could have been the wind through the nearby boughs. But I already know the answer. Jasper doesn't have a crooked smile or nose. Jasper doesn't have wild, untamed hair.

"No, it wasn't Jasper." Alice smiles faintly as she gazes off into a distance only she can see. "It was Edward. For one split second, I saw Edward. He had his eyes closed, as if he were listening for something in the middle of the forest.

"And then someone called his name, and his head whipped around.

"And then he was running."

"Running?" I echo.

"Sprinting like no one has ever sprinted before. It was…incredible." Alice focuses on my face for the first time. "Have you ever seen a cheetah run?"

Impatient, I say, "Not a lot of cheetahs in Forks, Alice."

"No," she says, exasperated. "I mean like on the Discovery Channel or something."

"You know that we pretty much only have ESPN."

"Oh. Well then—picture Tyler."

Ah, now I see. Alice and I are the only regular attendees at the Forks High track meets. No one else wants to sit out in the rain. We don't either, really, but we do want to see Tyler run. Off the track, he's a disgusting, drooling pig who hits on any female with two legs. On the track, he transforms into a lean, mean speed machine.

"It was like watching Tyler…on crack. Or, more appropriately, on speed."

"But you said that you saw Edward with Jasper…" I prompt. While I appreciate a good Tyler sprint, I've never been as easily distracted by the sight as Alice is.

"Yes! They were running together. Edward caught up to Jasper and quickly passed him."

She looks at me again, her eyes liquid with emotion.

"Your Edward is very fast."

I don't really know what to say to that.

"So they just ran together?"

"Through the forest. The tree trunks whipping by; branches mussing their hair. It was _beautiful._"

I'll bet it was. If only I could have seen it.

At least there is one thing I can see.

"Do you have the sketch?"

"Of course," she says, pulling a folded paper from her coat pocket.

I've never wanted to see something more desperately in my life. I take the paper from her, and it shakes in my hand.

In the gloom of the evening, I can barely make out the strokes of her pencil on the page. But what I can see is surreal, the nearly indiscernible figure of a man standing with broad shoulders to me, a wonderful bit of symbolism for Edward in real life. His face in the mirror—with those sinister brows, crooked features, and wild hair—looks downright menacing.

Edward—if this is indeed Edward—doesn't look the least bit angelic.

In fact, he looks downright demonic. The space where his eyes should be is blank, devoid of expression below stormy brows.

Alice can see that I'm troubled. She's apologetic. "I only saw his face for a second, Bella."

Yeah, just one second. One second more than I.

"You didn't draw the eyes," I say, refusing to meet hers.

"No," she says. "I didn't see his eyes. They didn't open."

At least there is one part of him that's still mine.

After that, there isn't much else to say. We sit in silence for a while, except for the boards creaking and the wind rustling.

"I promised my mom I would be back by dinner," Alice says, noting for the first time how dark the forest has grown around us.

"Yeah," I agree, although I had made no such promise. I don't follow Alice as she shimmies gracefully down the tree.

This time, I don't want her to watch me make a complete and utter fool of myself getting out of this stupid, ridiculous tree. I don't want to be further reminded of my garbled limbs when compared to her graceful ones.

She stands looking up at me from the base of the tree, her face a moon in the gloom. "Are you coming?"

"In a while," I say. "I may just sit here and cogitate a bit."

_Cogitate, cogitate, throw up all the food I ate._

"Do you want me to wait for you?" Even though her question frustrates me, she's right to ask. If my ascent was any indication, my descent is not going to be pretty. Yet another reason for me to do it alone.

"No, I'll be fine. I have my cell phone if anything happens," I say, vaguely patting my coat pocket.

"Okay," she says doubtfully, but I hear her dutifully moving away.

Then she's gone, and I'm left in the everlasting silence of the woods. I wonder if the woods are always so silent for everyone else. I wonder if everyone else feels like they are the last person on earth.

I sit in a dilapidated ruin of a happier time, and I refuse to speak to Edward. I refuse to speak to Edward because he's refused to speak to me. He's refused to speak to me or show himself to me or to give me even the smallest of signs that he's real, that he's himself, that he's not…_me_.

And yet he'll show himself to Alice? He'll give _her_ a sign? He'll show her his pretty little face and his pretty little hair and his pretty little limbs?

Forget crazy, I'm crazy mad.

_Crazy? I was crazy once…_

Eventually, the protest of the rotted wood and the descent of dark propel me to start the laborious climb. Gritting my teeth, I grip the edge of the hatch and gingerly lower the ball of my foot until it connects with the topmost rung.

I remember shifting my weight.

I remember gripping the edge of the hatch.

And that's the last thing I can remember.

Because at that point, something goes very, very wrong.

As it often does for me.

I don't know exactly what happened. My hands or feet could have lost their purchase against the damp, mossy wood. The rotted area around one of the nails could have finally crumbled. My inner ear could have decided that down is the new up.

Regardless, I slip.

I slip and—for one glorious second—I'm flying headfirst toward the welcoming ground.

_Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._

In a moment of hysteria, I feel like that whale in the Douglas Adams book, although I'm smart enough to know the ground beneath me wants to be anything but friends. I'm going to be lucky if the ground is nice enough to let me walk out of this alive.

Or maybe not so lucky.

Maybe alive is not the greatest thing to be right now.

One split second, and then my inner ear informs me that all kinds of weird things are happening. The wind picks up, and I feel myself snap like a flag in the breeze, twisting and turning in mid-air.

Then I land, but I don't land on my head. I land on my back, and the wind flees my lungs. I think: That's one way to descend a tree house. If you want to break your neck.

It's a miracle I didn't.

A miracle—or maybe…just maybe…it's something else.

Maybe it's a sign.

Maybe I've finally figured out how to get Edward to reveal himself after all.

Not even the merest breath of wind stirs the leaves. Yet I most certainly just felt the effects of the wind.

* * *

**A pretty poem that I in no way wrote:**

Crazy?  
I was crazy once…  
They put me in a round room.  
I liked that room.  
They gave me a huggy jacket.  
I liked that jacket.  
I hugged it and it hugged me back.  
One day I died  
and they buried me under daisies.  
I hate daisies.  
One day I sniffed the daisies.  
They smelled so bad it drove me crazy.  
Crazy?  
I was crazy once …


	6. Discovery or death

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

I try to sneak back into the house.

As far as sneaking goes, I'm fairly successful. I soft-step into the foyer and ease the screen door closed with only the merest of thwumps. I can hear Charlie and Renee conferring somewhere in the back of the house. Since the only room in the back of the house in which they could possibly be conferring is their old bedroom, I assume that's where they are. I manage not to get too distracted or weirded out by that fact as I stumble out of my boots.

I avoid all the usual creaky spots in the entryway leading to the staircase. I lift one socked foot to the non-squeaky side of the first step and start shifting my weight.

"Bella?" Renee calls. "Is that you?"

I race up the stairs like a stampede of elephants. Just as I'm closing my bedroom door behind me, I hear Charlie call, "Where have you been? We called Alice's mom…you weren't there."

Guess Alice hadn't exactly told her parents where she was going, either.

I don't answer him, instead grabbing the brush from my dresser and starting the process of picking miscellaneous leaves and twigs out of my hair. Thanks to my brief stint on the ground, I look like a forest-dwelling nomad. But before I've made myself presentable, Renee pushes open my bedroom door.

"What happened?" she asks, rushing into the room. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," I placate.

Charlie pokes his head in. "We got your note. You didn't take your truck?"

"No, I walked."

"You walked to Alice's and back?" Charlie asks, an edge to his voice.

I can't remember my parents being in my room at the same time before. When I was younger, I probably would have found their presence comforting.

"No. Alice and I met up in the woods near here."

"So you didn't go to Alice's?" Charlie clarifies.

"Are you lying to us now?" Renee demands.

"And why are you and Alice meeting in the woods?"Charlie asks.

Due to the fact that I'm an only child of a divorced father, I find having two parents in my room throwing flaming-dart questions into the bulls-eye of my heart just a tad overwhelming. I'm too physically tired and too emotionally drained to try to decipher which question I should answer first and how I should best answer each one.

Instead, I snap.

"I don't lie," I growl, tossing my hairbrush forcefully back onto the dresser. "My note didn't say anything about going to Alice's. Merely that I was going to see Alice. And Alice and I often meet in the woods."

Only after I look up to see Renee and Charlie staring at me do I realize that my answers plus the furious tone in which I've spoken plus my overall disheveled appearance could easily be projecting a less than positive overall image.

I say, "Would you mind giving me some space here? I walked home in the rain; I need to get cleaned up." I try to keep my tone neutral, but my voice wavers just a bit.

"Of course, honey," Renee finally says, meeting Charlie's gaze in warning. "We'll continue this conversation over dinner."

She starts ushering Charlie out of the room.

"I'm not hungry," I blurt. Bad thing to say, as the parental units freeze.

Charlie clears his throat. "Bella, we need to talk to you. Can you come down anyway?"

I clench my jaw and stare at my feet. I'm truly not hungry, but since he's asked so nicely…

"Fine."

The door closes behind them, and I'm left to prepare myself for dinner.

I couldn't have prepared for this dinner. Dr. K had apparently taken it upon himself to inform Renee that our sessions aren't going as planned. I suppose that doctor/patient confidentiality thing only gets you so far when the patient in question is 1) a minor and 2) crazy.

Over lumpy spaghetti, I hear all about Renee's conversation. Dr. K has told her that I refuse to consider the option that I am, in fact, schizophrenic. Dr. K has informed her that I am more convinced than ever that Edward is real. Ergo, concordantly, and vis à vis, Dr. K is recommending medication.

I can't take Dr. K seriously.

But Renee can. And does.

"Bella," she says earnestly while I push around over-cooked food on my plate, "people with this illness often find it hard to lead normal lives, to hold down a job, to maintain relationships."

"No pills."

"Honey, we don't want this to happen to you."

"No pills."

I repeat this mantra, remembering what Alice had said about the medication she'd been given. She'd been so out of it that she'd even forgotten about Edward.

I don't want to forget about Edward.

Renee and Charlie have a silent conversation with their eyes. Renee's eyes plead, _Do something_. Charlie's eyes do their best to look at his feet.

Eventually, Charlie plinks his fork and sighs. "We only want to help you, Bells."

I drop my own fork. "Help me what? Not see Edward anymore? Because I already _don't_ see Edward. Are the pills supposed to help me lead a 'normal' life? Because I've heard they won't. I've heard they make you stupid and slow, and I'm already stupid and slow enough."

"You're neither stupid nor slow," Renee says.

"If I'm not stupid, then maybe you should listen to me. Maybe you should give me a chance."

"Give you a chance to do what, exactly?"

I want so badly to say: To prove Edward is real.

But I can't say that.

"To…try harder. If Dr. K doesn't think I'm trying hard enough, I can try harder."

There.

The way I've worded this, I've sneakily avoided acknowledging guilt while simultaneously casting reasonable doubt on Dr. K's assessment of the situation.

Charlie knows all about reasonable doubt. "She has a point, Renee. Surely there's something else that the doctor can try."

"Not if Bella isn't cooperating. Charlie, we talked about this."

Good to know they were only talking while I was falling out of trees.

I sense an opening. "I'm not being difficult. You know I'm not really one to volunteer information without being asked."

"Maybe that doctor isn't asking in the right way," Charlie says. He's looking at Renee. He's agreeing with me. He doesn't like talking to people, either.

I jump in again, promising to try harder at this whole therapy thing. I promise to take it seriously and love it and cherish it 'til death do us part.

The pills are postponed. Only postponed because my parents, they still think my life is spiraling out of control. Of course, they haven't seen anything yet. Edward would show himself to Alice but not me? I would show them out of control.

For you see, like all good plans, my plan has a phase three.

In the third and final phase, I am certain that I will accomplish my goal. In phase three, I will finally draw Edward out from the everlasting shadows in which he lurks. I will prove, beyond all reasonable doubt, that he exists.

Or I will die trying.

* * *

Phase three begins when I open my eyes the next morning. I force myself to look at the world in a whole new way. I look for the right kinds of situations in which I can embroil myself. Unfortunately, Forks offers a dearth of life-threatening activities. There are only so many ways you can go dare-devil in a small town. No tall buildings to throw myself from. No buses to step in front of.

The things I can do are trivial. Oh look, I'm not wearing my seatbelt. Oh look, I've coerced my dinosaur of a car to approach the speed limit as I round this curve. Oh look, I'm climbing the school steps—without using the handrail!

At one point, I contemplate the whole drinking and driving thing, but I'm leery of substances that might bend my mind even further out of whack.

So in phase three, I still need my partner in crime.

One of the many upsides to side-stepping the meds is that I'm still allowed to drive. Consequently, I'm allowed to continue seeing Jacob. And when I'm with Jacob, I can pretend that everything's normal. Although normally, I don't sit here popcorning dare-devil(ish) ideas.

"Let's swim out to the sea stacks at La Push."

Jacob is on his back under one of the bikes, tinkering.

"Let's not," he says. "The undertow is wicked, and the water's freezing."

"How about we go paddle-boating on Lake Crescent?"

"Uh…"

"Cow-tipping?"

Jacob lifts up and looks at me blankly.

And rightly so. Like cheetahs, there are not a lot of cows in Forks.

"Am I not entertaining you enough?" he asks, tossing a tool into a nearby box. "Do I need to take you to a movie or something?" He's smiling, but the look in his eyes informs me he's only half kidding.

"No. I don't do movies." I turn my face away, looking out into the forest.

Jacob sobers, belatedly remembering Port Angeles. "Okay. No movies." He's silent for the time it takes him to screw a final bolt. "Any reason you're proposing these outlandish activities?"

"No. No reason. Just getting antsy about these bikes. Are you sure you're the mechanic you say you are?"

His glare could scathe.

Two hours later, Jacob stretches to his full height and smiles devilishly at me as he presses a little red button. The bike roars to life. This time, it doesn't die, even as the roar of the second bike joins in the fray.

He's exactly the mechanic he says he is.

I smile right back at him because his timing couldn't have been more perfect. I'm beyond eager to christen his creations in a proper ceremony that involves rubber meeting road.

At first, Jacob has fun.

He beams as we load the machines to the bed of my truck, which sags under weight he shouldn't have been able to lift.

I tell him it's because of my "help."

"Yeah right," he scoffs. "If by 'help' you mean spinning the wheels."

I "hardy har" at his pun.

We've already scouted the perfect track—a deserted farm road up north that is relatively straight, relatively flat, and perfectly remote.

On our way, I drive winding roads, and we see some of his buddies leaping from a rocky bluff to the sea. Normally, I would have looked away from kamikaze, but now I'm all eyes. Even from a distance, Quil sees my truck and waves. I watch, fascinated, as this scrawny kid launches from the earth, a mere stick against the cliff.

Then we're around the bend and Jacob, in response to my raised eyebrows, rolls his eyes. "Such a pansy. I jump from higher."

There's something in his voice, the slightest of strains I've noticed whenever Quil in particular is nearby. Selfishly, I like the sound of it.

I tease him. "You know you're going to have to prove it now."

"As if I even need to." He's matter-of-fact, looking out his window.

And it's true. I know that he can do it. Jacob can do anything. Me, I'm wondering from how high I could convince myself to jump.

Jacob's still having fun as we line up the bikes.

"Ready to be illicit?" he asks, and my body chills for a moment until I catch his reference and nod.

He shows me how to work the hand holds and, I don't know, he might be leaving his big, warm hand on mine a little too long. He leaves it there and I'm looking down and I see that, like me, he bites his nails. I see that, despite their size and their weight, they're still the hands of a boy.

The moment passes and I know as much as I'm going to know about this handle and that and we're straddling our mounts, gunning the gas, leaning forward as though we're already flying toward a finish line.

Or at least, I am.

For our maiden voyage, Jacob chivalrously gave me the fastest dirt bike in the Pacific Northwest because it handles better than Quil's "special" bike, which has a tricky clutch. I have the fastest bike, and I'm going to use it. A few moments after we kick off, the surge of my motor drowns out Jacob's startled shout. I can't even decipher what he said; I'm too far gone.

I'm focused on riding far. I'm focused on riding fast. My hair trails wild and free because who needs a helmet? In that moment, it's all need and speed and fun fun fun.

Then, of course, it's not.

We weren't supposed to ride this far, nor this fast. The road is no longer straight, and Jacob didn't show me how to turn, so when the road veers off, I don't follow. The bike falters, but my body doesn't, and I'm flying over the handlebars and oh look, there's a rock.

Forget killing two birds with one stone; I'll kill one Swan with one stone.

I'm flying through the air just like a bird, feeling the wind in my face, thinking that now would be a most excellent time to feel more effects of the wind. A most excellent time indeed. I think this right up until the point where my head connects with something solid.

Then I can't think anything at all.

For several minutes, I stare into the blue, blue sky as the ground tries to rock me to sleep. But I can't sleep right now; I have to go again.

As I struggle to sit up, Jacob's no longer having fun. He's throwing his bike to the ground and striding up to me and gritting out, "What the hell were you thinking?" The uncustomary swear word fails to hide uncustomary emotion in his voice—fear.

Of course, the time I plan for the effects of the wind is the time that the wind is nowhere to be felt.

"Your head is bleeding," he growls, crouching low, his fingers fluttering near a wound I'm just beginning to feel.

"It's nothing," I say even as blood oozes down my cheek.

The blood seems to concern Jacob, and he reaches down as if to pull off his shirt.

"Um, hello?" I say, shaking the sleeve of my button-up at him. "I'm the one with clothes to spare, not you." I shrug out of my flannel, and he helps me wrap it around my head like a turban or like a wounded soldier.

"What was that?" he asks, more calm now that I'm conscious rather than borderline comatose.

"Was what?" I play dumb like a champ because hey, I just hit my head.

"You making a beeline for a boulder."

"It was an accident."

He looks at the rock, then mumbles, "Didn't look like an accident to me."

"Right," I drawl. "Like I would purposefully launch myself into a rock."

He still doesn't look convinced.

"C'mon, you know I'm the ultimate klutz."

He smiles a small, shaky smile. "I should have known better than to entrust my baby to a paleface, much less a paleface klutz."

For the first time, I look over to see if my bike, the bike that Jacob spent months working on, is damaged. There's a little dirt on the handlebar, but nothing seems bent or broken or leaking. Unlike my head.

Good, because…

"Let's go again!" I say with false cheer, and Jacob just looks at me.

He doesn't say no, but his eyes say it for him. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. I just have a need for speed." I laugh it off.

He doesn't laugh with me.

We don't go again.

He's quiet as he drives us home.

* * *

The cut on my head is difficult to hide from my parents, but not impossible. Not for the first time, I'm glad that those stretchy headbands are currently en vogue. I borrow a thick one from Alice, and it covers the wound nicely. For a while, I look cute and trendy.

My ploy is particularly timely because Renee has stopped renting a room at the Pacific Inn.

"Too expensive," she says. "It's only practical that I stay here."

Charlie starts sleeping on the couch. Nothing new there; he often falls asleep watching a late game. We keep a pillow and a purple Huskies throw on the couch for this reason.

I'm under a near-constant cloud of parental supervision. When I'm home, I start doing homework down on the kitchen table. It's a win-win: not only do my parents see that I'm not doing anything weird up alone in my room, but they're also more apt to continue approving time with Jacob if I do my schoolwork beforehand.

Most of the time, I actually do schoolwork. Sometimes, like now, I write in my little red journal about how disappointed I am that my head impacted with that rock. What is the difference between falling out of a tree toward the ground and falling off a bike toward a rock? Maybe Jacob's presence was a factor. Maybe I hadn't been far enough off the ground. Maybe Edward can see the future and knew the rock would cause no permanent damage.

I can't know; I need more data. I ponder the fact that I've seen a tire swing in Jacob's yard. On the back of my trig homework, I draw a rough arc and calculate the trajectory of a fall if I let go when the pendulum swing is at its peak…

The numbers are promising.

Who knew that I would actually use math in real life?

Of course, I'll have to convince Jacob to push me. Easier said than done since the bike incident.

"I'm going to the Black's," I say in the direction of whichever parent is on Bella watch, jamming my feet into shoes and reaching for my coat.

Then I stand in the foyer for a long moment, feeling like something is wrong. Something is missing. After further contemplation, I determine that what's missing are my car keys. I always leave them on the table in the entryway, the table that I'd placed purposefully right _there_ so that I can find my keys and my wallet. And there's my wallet. But there aren't my keys.

"Looking for something?" Renee asks innocently from where she's flipping through a mag. The way she says it, I want to whirl and scream at her that I _know_ she's taken my car keys and why, if she didn't want me going anywhere, didn't she just say so?

But I don't whirl. I don't scream. My tongue pressed to the roof of my mouth, I start looking for my keys.

"Do you really need to go and see Jacob today?" Renee calls. "I was hoping that maybe we could spend some family time this weekend."

I'm not up for this, as Renee's idea of spending time with me is starting to remind me of the time we spent with Gran. It makes me uncomfortable, like my parents are watching with bated breath to see what crazy thing I'm going to do next.

"How about tomorrow?" I bargain, and Renee merely makes a disapproving noise as she flips to the next page.

I look for my keys.

And look.

And look.

Thirty minutes later, I'm grumpy and sweaty and almost to the point where screw it, I'm going to _walk_ to the rez, when…

I find my keys.

Under the washing machine.

Guess Charlie and Renee didn't confiscate them after all. Guess they just fell out of my pants pocket when I was doing laundry yesterday. Guess I subsequently managed to kick a ring of clinky, dangly keys underneath the washer without, say, _hearing_ them go clanking across the tile.

This is what any normal, sane person would guess.

But I guess I'm just flat-out not normal.

Because I'm very, very suspicious.

Granted, I lose stuff all the time—combs, socks, my truck in parking lots. What I _don't_ usually do, however, is lose things so thoroughly. I usually find stuff right where I left it, even if I had forgotten _where_ I'd left it.

This time, I can't help but wonder if perhaps I hadn't left my keys in my pants pocket. If, in fact, someone had spirited said keys from their rightful spot in the foyer to the laundry room and conveniently slid them somewhere out of the way. If, perhaps, this same someone had done so because he wasn't happy about my activities during phase three. Or the injury I sustained under Jacob Black's watch.

Granted, I know that it wasn't Jacob's fault. But this someone might not know.

I should probably feel frustrated. I should probably feel angry.

Instead, I feel _momentus_. I feel _turbo-charged_. I feel like I could jump off a cliff.

The fact that this someone bothered to hide my keys—it's a sign, I tell you. A sign I'm close. A sign that someone's getting desperate. That someone is going to crack, and soon.

But that someone is not going to be me.

I salute my keys at Renee as I leave.

* * *

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Jacob says in his best Han Solo voice. He says this as he peers over the edge of a rocky cliff at deceptively calm water below.

We're picking our way up the same rocks that we'd seen Quil and pals launching themselves from earlier. I had tricked Jacob into coming here by not telling him where we were going. When I'd pulled the truck over to the side of the road near the bluff, his face had gone all pinched and disapproving. Not a look I'm used to seeing on him.

I don't think he's forgiven me for my going all Evel Knievel on his bike.

I think he's worried about me.

Now, he's trying to distract me with Star Wars. I don't let him. "I thought you said you do this all the time," I say, continuing to climb. I avoid looking down.

"Yes, but—"

"Are you wussing out on me now, Black?"

"Of course not," he sputters, as if the thought is ludicrous. "It's just that I usually jump from a little lower."

I continue to climb. "I distinctly remember something about you needing to prove your manhood."

"Bella," Jacob says, watching my feet, which are already at his eye level. "There's absolutely no way you're jumping, much less from that high."

I climb a little higher and then stop. I peel off my jacket. I kick off my shoes.

"Bella," Jacob says, and I hear the first undercurrent of panic in his tone. "This is dangerous. You don't know what you're doing."

Wrong. I know _exactly_ what I'm doing.

"I thought you liked me dangerous."

Jacob's face tightens into a dark scowl. "I like you alive. Can you even swim?"

I look down at the whitecaps surging far, far below.

"Can you?" I challenge.

"Yes."

"Then I'll need you to jump in after me."

"Bella," Jacob scoffs, trying to laugh this all off, but the panic is still there. Good. I want Edward to hear the panic. I want Edward to feel the panic. My entire body tenses in panic as I will myself to step forward, to the very edge of the cliff.

"Bella!" Jacob says, the panic in his voice escalating to all-out terror. He starts reaching, scrambling up after me.

But he's too late.

I jump.

For one glorious second, I'm flying. I'm weightless, my body rising from the earth, the wind caressing my hair. Only for one glorious second, and then I'm falling. Falling to either a sure death or a sure reveal—at this point, I will take either.

I'm falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And then I'm hitting water like it's a brick wall.

I've never taken swim lessons. I've never jumped off the side of a pool, much less off a diving board. I don't know that you're supposed to point your toes. I don't know the metaphor of making your body as tight and straight as a pencil to minimize the impact on your bones.

Because I don't know these things, I'm nearly knocked senseless by my initial plunge. From above, the water had looked welcoming, calm, beautiful. The instant my head sinks beneath the waves, the water transforms into a maelstrom of raging, spinning currents that toss me about as easily as if I had been the limp form of Mr. Bear.

I breach and breathe, but ensuing surges of slapping tide suck me under, prevent me from getting enough air, threaten to crush me into the nearby rocks.

Jacob was right to panic.

Edward, I'm scared.

Edward, it's now or never.

Edward, your discovery or my death.

I sink beneath the sea. I sink down deep, farther than Jacob would ever be able to reach. It's calm down here, peaceful. Above, I can see the harsh tendrils of water beating against the air and the rocks, raging against this world.

But nothing can touch me down here.

..

..

..

Until, of course, something does.


	7. Full circle

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

It's dark.

Dark is good. Dark is cold and infinite and night. I'm sinking down, deep down, toward the dark.

Toward Edward.

Edward is night.

It's always night down here at the bottom of the sea, and night is when Edward is close. When I sleep, I often dream of Edward—Edward's hands smoothing my sheets, my face, my hair. Sometimes, in that split second when dreams are real, I see him rock in the chair by my bed. Through eyelash-blurred vision, I almost see his face.

But when my eyes open, he's gone, white curtain fluttering like a final goodbye. He's nothing but a dream. I want my dreams to be real. I want to sleep forever.

So I sink, deep and down and dead.

Death is the forever dream.

Then, I no longer sink.

Cool currents stir—water's version of wind.

They stir, and I sink no longer.

I rise.

Watery wind swirls invisibly and pushes me toward the light.

My lungs, they're _burning_.

I guess I'm not dead after all. Death should be calm, peaceful, as easy as a leaf drifting away on an eddy or falling asleep in a warm bubble bath.

This? This is not easy. This is scorching fire and clawing desire and if I don't get oxygen right now—right _now_—my lungs will implode.

_Bella_.

A name—someone's saying it, and the name is familiar. The voice is familiar. I've heard this name before. I've heard this voice before.

"Bella Bella Bella."

I can't think more about this name or this voice because I'm busy drowning here. Darkness is no longer something to embrace; it's something to fear. Some wet, cold thing kisses my mouth; something pushes on my chest—one, two, three, four.

"Please, Bella," the voice begs, and I realize that the name is my name and the person is talking to me. He wants me to do something. He wants me to breathe.

I want me to breathe, too.

My lungs fight for air, jerking my neck and spasming my body against the arms holding me steady. The arms are thick and strong and warm. Cough, and salty sea erupts from the volcano of my mouth.

Breathe in.

"Bella," the person with the warm, strong arms is pleading, and he wants me to do something else. He wants me to open my eyes.

I do, and the sky is storm-slate gray.

Breathe out.

I'm lying on my back, and my fingers claw through ground that is too porous, too wet, too fine.

Breathe in, deep in.

Make a fist, and bits of rocks and shells siphon from the curve of my pinky.

Breathe out and I'm on a beach. Breathe in and that dull roar is the ocean creeping its tendrils through rocks and sand, grabbing for me, reaching to finish what it started. What it couldn't finish because of the dark shape hovering overhead, cradling me in his arms like I'm a newborn.

Look down at an arm splayed across my stomach, and I see too-short nails with grease under them.

The hands of a boy.

My boy.

Jacob.

Jacob saved me.

Jacob would never let me die.

Jacob helps me sit. We sit, elbows touching, on a pebbled beach until I can breathe in, out, in, out without coughing, until I can breathe without burning, until the afternoon warmth begins to stretch into the chill of evening. Beside me, Jacob is as still and taut and silent as a balloon stretched to burst.

I sit and listen to the roar of the sea, a roar that can't quite drown Jacob's silence. I sit and stare at the wind stirring the waves. I sit until I'm sure I'm no longer dreaming, until I'm sure I'm awake. Until I'm sure I didn't see Edward, didn't feel Edward.

I felt only Jacob, tugging and pulling my body toward the light.

I feel Jacob now.

I feel Jacob's silence.

When I can no longer sit in this silence—a silence worse than speech—I stand on newborn colt's legs and begin the trek back to my truck. After a moment, I hear Jacob's feet begin to track a second set of footprints in the sand.

On the long and winding path back up to the road, I'm overly aware of his presence, the noises he makes, his breathing. He's right behind me, keeping pace with my steps. He's here, he's real, he saved me. I wish he were someone else. I wish someone else were real.

When we arrive at my truck at last, I step around to the passenger's side. Just like you don't drink and drive, you don't drown and drive, either. I fumble for the door handle and hear his steps quicken. His silence is about to burst.

"Bella, we need to talk about this."

"No. We don't."

Before I can creak the door fully open, before I can start shifting to squeeze inside, Jacob's palm impacts the metal, slamming it shut.

The sound gunshots through the trees. The woods around us go still, quiet, the birds and squirrels and frogs cowering from Jacob's wrath.

I turn, my face blank.

Jacob's face is not blank.

"I let the bike thing go," he says, eyes dark. "I did. I took your word that it was an _accident_." He scoffs the last word, lips curling over sharp teeth. "But this. This was no accident."

He pauses, and now would be the perfect time to speak up, downplay, reassure. Of course, I can't. I can't say anything, anything at all, because he's right.

It wasn't an accident.

It was a test.

He understands what my silence means. "Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?"

I huff, "Of course not."

"Then what, exactly, were you trying to do?"

We stand staring, jaws jutted, both too stubborn to back down. He's not going to move until I answer, and I'm not going to answer. The air between us chills, crystallizes; our usual warm, easy camaraderie—it's icing over, crackling and frozen. We can't move, can't go forward unless someone breaks.

"Jacob, I'm freezing here." In more ways than one. "Can we at least get in the car?"

The frustration on his face fades as he registers my subtle shiver. A cool breeze dances with nearby leaves and turns my sodden clothes to ice. Not waiting for him to respond, I wrench open the door again and edge into the passenger's seat.

Jacob watches me for a moment before slowly rounding the hood and joining me in the cab. Although he turns over the engine and blasts the heater, he makes no other move to send us on our merry little way.

We sit.

"Can you just _talk_ to me?" he pleads, voice low, desperate.

I look away from him, out the window. "Not now."

He hears, _Not ever_.

We sit more. The only sounds in the truck cab are the hiss of the heater and the knocking of my teeth as I will my body to get warm.

I cringe when Jacob says, "C'mere."

Yet I let him reach for me. I let him touch me. I let him tuck me into his body.

Immediately, I'm aware of three things: he's warm, he's strong, and he's half naked. Abstractly, I'd noticed that he'd taken off his shirt somewhere between the point I jumped into the water and he pulled me out of it, but this fact suddenly becomes very real and very warm.

Jacob has a penchant for taking off shirts.

And this is a good thing.

I think.

"Okay," he says. "If you won't talk, I will." He takes a deep breath. "These past several months have been some of the best of my life. I've enjoyed spending time with you. I've enjoyed getting to know you."

"Same here," I mumble against his chest because it's true.

We're silent as warmth seeps.

Then he whispers, "I thought I had lost you, Bella."

I hadn't really thought. I hadn't really thought what it would do to Jacob, watching me plummet to my death. I had _wanted_ him scared. I had _wanted_ him panicked.

My voice is very small. "But you didn't, so..."

We shift, and without even meaning to, we're looking into each other's eyes. A beat, and then he's no longer looking into my eyes. He's looking a little lower. He's looking at my lips.

He licks his own in anticipation.

I'm trembling, but not for the same reason as before. The cold, I almost can't feel it now.

He goes in to kiss me.

And this is it.

This is the moment I've been working toward for months, the ultimate test of Edward's silence, his presence. Is he out there right now, peering through the cracked windshield of a '53 Chevy? Does he see Jacob's arms wrapped around me and Jacob's mouth seeking mine? Does he wish he were Jacob? Does he wish he were sitting where Jacob sits? Does he even care? I hope he does. I hope he's watching. I hope it more than anything, more than life.

Then Jacob becomes all I can see, all I can feel.

In this instant, the instant before I forever sacrifice the virgin of my lips, I realize one thing—there's a _reason_ why a defunct tree house nestled in a gnarled tree has yet to hear about my first kiss. When all the junior high girls were kissing their pillows and hands and that poster of Hollywood's latest "it" boy, I didn't practice up for the big event. When my peers, including Alice, were experiencing their first kiss with this boy or that, I…wasn't.

In this instant, I realize I've been saving my first kiss—for someone who might not exist.

"Wait," I say. I say this practically into his warm mouth, it's so close. And although his arms tighten around me, Jacob waits.

Because that's Jacob.

"I…I can't do this," I say.

Jacob's lips remain poised and parted for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he lowers his head to better look into my eyes.

"Why not?" he says. He's quiet, wary, hurt.

"I just…can't."

He pushes back and faces forward and I've only begun to understand how much his presence warms me.

"Is this because of _him_?" he says, angry.

Him.

The word is a toaster dropped into a tub.

"Him?" I breathe. Jacob should know of no _him_. I haven't once mentioned Edward. Not so much as a slipped "he" in our everyday conversations. I think about Edward often, but I've always been very, very good at not mentioning him. "Him who?"

My skin prickles in anticipation of his answer.

"The person you're trying to make jealous by hanging out with me."

I stare.

I stare and stare.

Jacob has always been perceptive beyond his years, but he couldn't have perceived Edward. Could he?

"Who is it…Cheney?"

Oh.

I deflate.

"No," I choke, looking down at my fingertips, tinged blue.

"Newton?"

"_No_."

He takes a breath.

"Quil?" The last name on his list—the most important name—comes out as a whisper. I'm sad that my big, strong Jacob could ever be worried by measly, weasly "I'm Quil Ateara."

"Of course not. There is no _him_, Jacob," I say, praying to every god that exists that I'm wrong.

"Hm," he grunts, staring out into the forest.

"I just can't do this with you right now," I say.

Maybe it's the sentiment, maybe it's the warble in my voice or my renewed shivering—either way, Jacob's anger recedes as quickly as the tide. "Telling me that you can't do this and that you can't do this right now are two different things."

"I know."

He sighs. "So when?"

"I need time."

Time for me to figure this out. Time for me to learn the truth and, if necessary, time for me to let go.

He just looks at me for a moment, so vulnerable and guileless and _Jacob_. At last, he says, "I've got loads of time."

He shifts the engine into gear.

We drive.

"Uh, you just passed your house."

"Yeah," he says.

We drive more.

"You're taking me to my house."

"Yup."

We pull up in front of my house and sit. Jacob kills the car, hands me the keys, and moves to open his door.

"What, are you just going to walk home?" I ask.

"No," he says. "I'm going to run."

The Black's house is only a bazillion miles away—more miles than Jacob can possibly run. "Are you a closet marathon runner or something?"

"No. I'll run for a while and then hitch a ride. Don't worry, I do it all the time."

"Are you sure? I could get Charlie to drive you back." My suggestion sounds half-hearted, even to me, and Jacob just _looks_ at me. He knows as well as I do that I don't want to get Charlie involved in this. Whatever this is.

"I'm sure. It will give me time to think." He steps out of the car, closes the door, and stands leaning into the window for a sec. "And Bella. I want you to know that I'm not going anywhere. You want to come down to the rez, hang out, I'm there."

"Thanks," I say, but he's not done.

"You won't talk to me about this, fine. But I think you need to talk to someone."

Before I can say anything, before I can even blink, he's gone. I look back through distorted glass and see him take off at an easy lope.

His body, it was made for running.

I watch that body until it's very small, until it's gone.

Then I sit alone in my truck.

In a single day, my plans to "out" Edward have been blown upside down and sideways. If I can't even let myself be kissed by a boy I care about, how will I make Edward jealous? If I can't even let myself drown, how will he ever save me?

And now, this isn't only about me. This isn't only about me proving something to myself. There's a third party now, someone I've come to care about. Someone I don't want to hurt.

But no matter what, someone is going to get hurt.

* * *

I slink up to my room, undetected, and my phone winks accusingly. I've missed eleven calls. All eleven calls are from Alice.

As I pick up the phone, it rings again.

Alice speaks before I even say hello. "Are you alright?"

"Yes…?" My voice trails off in question because she sounds different, distorted…almost as though she's crying. Thing is, Alice doesn't cry. That's not Alice.

"Are you sure?" she demands.

"I'm sure. What's this about?"

"I…" There's a long pause. "…just needed to make sure you were alright."

"Alice, are _you_ alright?"

"I am now."

She hangs up before I say goodbye.

* * *

I half expect Jacob's conscience to kick in and compel him to tell Charlie about my recreational cliff-jumping. To be safe, I stay away for a while. Let him cool down. Let him forget. Forget that Bella is becoming increasingly unstable. Forget that Bella tried to kill herself on his watch.

Days without Jacob go like this:

School, therapy, homework, repeat.

School, therapy, homework, repeat.

School, therapy, homework, repeat.

Then, one day, I get to the repeat and I just…can't. I'm sitting on my bed in the wee hours of a weekend morning, staring down at my journal, when it hits me.

My plan has failed.

Completely, utterly, irreparably failed.

Edward did not speak to me in phase one. He did not reveal his jealousy of the boy I dallied with in phase two. And in phase three…

In phase three, he did not save me when I was in mortal danger.

Through it all, Edward has remained perfectly detached, perfectly silent, just all-around perfect. He drops absolutely no hints that he cares that I need him, that I want him, that I'm single-mindedly trying to break my neck for him.

I'm staring down at my journal, the very last page. I've come to the end, it's over, I have nothing else to write. I stare with distaste at the perfect little blue lines. I've written everything in between these lines. I've written all about Edward and Dr. K and Renee. Somewhere, reading between those lines, is all about Bella.

A Bella who doesn't matter.

I lower my little red pen to the final page of my little red notebook and write outside the lines. I write in spirals; I write in circles; I write more stuff that won't matter. When my notebook is full, when the plans of mice and men crumble to dust, there is only one thing I can do.

I walk.

I leave my bedroom, my house, and my truck. I step into forest, leaving sidewalk and civilization, and go where the wind takes me.

The wind leads me through ancient trees covered in encroaching moss and choking vines. I follow the wind over fallen logs and across flowing streams. As I walk, I listen to the forest grow still, until all I can hear are my imprecise footfalls.

I walk until the sun is high overhead, at the perfect apex of the sky. The sun's rays flood unexpectedly down, anointing a particular patch of forest floor.

A sign.

I step into the small circle of light. I'm Hamlet, and this is my spotlight for the most important monologue of my life.

Is Edward or is Edward not? That is the question.

So it begins.

"Edward," I say.

"I'm here," I say. "I'm here, lost and alone. No one knows that I'm here but you. And no one knows that you're here but me."

The forest is still.

Too still.

"I'm not leaving until you talk to me. I know you're out there. I'm going to keep talking until you respond."

He doesn't.

So I keep talking.

I tell him he's been the one thing I could count on my whole life. I know he's out there, watching me, even now. I can _feel_ him. I know that he must be lonely. I know that it can't be easy being so alone. I know because I'm alone. But I at least have Alice. I at least have Jacob. He has no one.

A momentum of electricity builds, sparking to life between the trees.

I feel it.

I beg. I cajole. I plead.

I tell him I can't live like this anymore. I can't live without him. I tell him I will leave Forks. Right now. I tell him that I will follow him wherever he wants me to go, if only he will lead.

I ask him what I need to do.

"I can't do this without you. I can't exist without you."

_Do you even exist?_

The air in my little clearing crackles with an invisible current that I have not felt in my seventeen years. But the energy, it's an electric spark with nowhere to jump, no one to connect to.

I stand in my halo of light and feel the energy seeping slowly away, lost, into the air and the ground and the trees. The potential connection fizzles, drains like blood into soil.

Because Edward doesn't answer.

"Edward," I whisper.

No answer.

"Edward," I state, forceful now.

No answer.

"Edward," I cry, stumbling forward out of the light, into the haze. "Edward?"

His name—it's a question.

Maybe the real question is this—if a Swan screams in the forest and no one hears, does she even make a sound? The answer tips my already precarious sanity over the edge.

I start to cry.

And then I start to scream.

And scream.

And scream.


	8. The smell of sunshine

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

Everything is dark, but a different kind of dark—the worst kind of dark.

A dark without Edward.

Last thing I remember is screaming. Screaming and screaming. And blood. Blood in the palm of my hand. Bloody fingerprints on my shirt.

Now, there's light, a bright light. You can't see in the dark, but you can't see in this light, either.

I'm on my back, a position in which I find myself often. I feel twigs and rocks digging into the skin of my thighs, the forest bed anything but soft. Someone is touching me with frigid fingers—the inside of my wrist, my forehead, my neck. The person helps me sit up because no one likes seeing people on the ground. My back presses against something as chilled and firm as the trunk of a denuded tree.

I don't think it's a tree.

"Bella."

Someone's saying my name again. Someone's shining light in first one eye, then the other. The light is so bright, I can see only a dark outline of the person's face.

"Charlie! Jacob!" the someone calls, and I can feel the vocal vibrations in my back. Definitely not a tree. "Over here!"

I hear answering shouts of relief and the sound of footfalls thrashing through the undergrowth in our direction. The flashlight is blinding, but there's something about the person holding me that is overwhelmingly familiar.

It's not the cold, hard torso or the icy hands or the smooth voice.

It's the smell.

The person holding me smells strongly of sweet and fresh and sun. Sunlight doesn't really smell, I know this. Yet the sun's rays are so visually beautiful—fragmenting shards of glass, fracturing in the depths of diamond, dancing on water's surface—that its lack of smell seems such a waste.

This smell is what I imagine as sun. It's not fire or carbon or sulfur. It's a smell I've smelled my whole life at unexpected moments, like when I walk into my room after being away at school. It's a smell I would know anywhere.

I whisper, "Edward?"

My vocal chords are so raw that no mortal should have been able to discern the words coming from my lips. But the person lowers the flashlight and peers close, close enough for me to see a pale, ethereal face. Close enough to see the gleam of warm, intelligent eyes.

"No," the man says. "It's Carlisle. And you're going to be just fine."

* * *

The next hour passes in a blur of lights—dancing flashlights, blaring headlights, racing fluorescent lines in the ceiling tiles above me. My beleaguered brain informs me that a gurney is spiriting me through the familiar halls of the Forks Medical Center.

I have an entourage of worried family and friends. They escort me to the cut-off point, some barking questions, some answers, some crying. Jacob is there, too, and he just _looks_ at me like he does. His dark eyes, usually dancing with light and life, are dead.

A pair of nurses in matching blue—_not_ white—scrubs tag team hooking me up to this machine and that. They pad efficiently away in their rubber-soled shoes, and then it's just me and the doctor. He's thrown a white coat over a casual sweater and jeans, a departure from his usual crisp shirt and tie. I'm well aware of his penchant for snappy dressing, as I've spent more than my share of time at the Forks Medical Center. Dr. Cullen has regularly set my bones and stitched my skin since he and his wife moved to town several years ago.

Would it be weird if I asked him to step closer so I can smell his arm? Edward's scent is the only thing keeping me sane.

The good doctor asks me the standard head trauma questions (how many fingers is he holding up), checks some readouts (heart rate is slightly elevated), and makes precise notes on his charts. I tell him that I merely got lost in the woods, that I encountered no rabid animals, and that all of my limbs and organs seem to be accounted for.

He hums and flips through the tome of my past medical history. Something only a few pages in, something recent, gives him pause. He stares down at the page with an emotion akin to surprise. His expression never wavers from his standard professional mask, but there's something about his eyes—

My chart flips shut.

I'd bet money it just informed him I have an incurable mental disorder.

"How are you sleeping?" he asks.

This question, it's not standard.

I would know.

"Fine."

The non-standard questions continue. Am I having trouble enjoying my regular activities? Do I feel inexplicably sad? Maybe it's just my imagination, maybe it's my recent trauma, my paranoia, my schizophrenia, maybe all of the above, but I'm convinced he knows something. I look directly at him as I answer his questions, right in the eyes, as though they're hidden gold mines I could pillage if I only had the right tools.

I answer no and no, but I mean no, I'd be enjoying my regular activities just fine, thanks, if I were allowed to participate in them and no, I know exactly why I'm feeling sad. It's not inexplicable in the slightest.

Then he asks me the hardest question of all.

"Have you ever thought about killing yourself?"

This time, I'm the one who looks away.

"No." This time, he's the one who looks steadily into my face, trying to gauge its secrets. "No," I repeat. "I would never…"

I can't finish that.

"Good," he says and smiles a final, sad smile. "Rest now."

* * *

I do.

I grab sleep before visiting hours. Charlie is first in line at 7:00 a.m. on the dot. I'm grateful, so grateful, that Renee still waits outside.

"What were you thinking?" Charlie demands as soon as the door's closed. But his voice trembles slightly, as though his anger is perched on a ledge and could rapidly descend into sorrow.

"I…wasn't."

"You know better than to wander around in the woods alone."

"Yes."

My calm answer confuses him. "Did you just get lost?"

"Yeah." If you count getting lost on purpose. "How did you find me?"

He sighs and sits on the visitor's chair, leaning forward and stroking his mustache, something he only does when he's worried.

"We almost didn't. We were looking down toward the reservation when Renee happened to find your note."

Um.

"My note?" I ask faintly.

"Yes."

I hold myself very, very still.

"Can I see it?"

Charlie looks at me oddly. "Yeah, it's on the kitchen table at home." He looks at me even more oddly when the bleep of the nearby heart monitor increases from a steady canter to a riotous gallop.

For you see, I didn't leave a note.

* * *

I'm nearly delirious from my screaming match against silence and my overnight stay in the earthy Forests of Forks Hotel. Mostly, though, I'm delirious with glee.

Edward has slipped up at last. Even though he'd somehow had the willpower to keep from showing himself to me in the forest, he hadn't been able to abandon me completely. He'd faked a note so that my parents would eventually discover where I'd gone. He couldn't leave me to die out there after all, lost and alone.

I can't wait to get out of this hospital.

I smile weakly and nod at everything the nurses say. I hold out my arm obligingly for them to take my blood pressure, my blood, my pulse. I'm the epitome of willing, helpful, completely healed patient. Heck, if they'd asked me to, I would have dropped my pants and peed into a two-inch cup with the entire hospital staff watching.

Half a day later, with a warning to my parents about making sure I drink enough fluids and that they wake me up that night every hour on the hour, Dr. Cullen at last signs my release forms.

I can't wait to get home.

An orderly wheels me out in a chair because it's hospital policy. Everything's so tall; I feel like an Oompa Loompa. This must be how Billy feels. This must be me in shock. My heart rate monitor, were it still mine, would be morse-coding all over the place.

As we're leaving, I hear Dr. Cullen murmur, "And Renee? She needs to see someone about this."

"She will." My mom's voice is grim.

I ignore the exchange, not caring what person Renee will find for me to see next. All that matters is that I see Edward. Or, at least, the work of Edward's hands.

The drive home in Charlie's car is excruciatingly slow. It is also excruciatingly…beautiful. It's a whole new world. Colors are brighter, smells are sweeter, even the air is cleaner. My eager eyes and ears and nose drink everything in like it's my first morning on earth. A world with Edward in it is a world a thousand times more lovely, more alive, more worth living in.

When we round the corner to reveal the Swan homestead with its peeling white paint and sagging front porch, I almost laugh with joy.

Edward has been in that house, under that roof. Edward has stepped across that sagging porch and through that front door. Edward's feet have stood on the yellowed linoleum of the kitchen floor. Edward's hand has pressed a pen to paper on our kitchen table. Edward's fingers have directed said pen in a rough approximation—or perhaps an exact replica, who knows?—of my handwriting.

I've never wanted to see my own handwriting more.

Finally—_finally_—I will have visible, tangible proof that Edward exists.

Even if no one will believe me that I didn't write the note; even if they think I had just forgotten writing it or I'm so desperate to prove I'm not crazy that I will use even the poorest of excuses.

Even then.

I will know.

_**I **_will _**know**_.

I don't care if the note is written on a dirty, crumpled piece of trash plucked from the nearby garbage can in the ugliest handwriting on the planet. I don't care if the note was written on an old gum wrapper with a chewed piece of gum in it. That puppy is going to be placed in a gilded frame and hung right above my bed.

When Renee helps me out of the car, I breathe the air that Edward had breathed. I walk along the same sidewalk that Edward had walked. I step inside the same door, round the same corner, and look into the same kitchen.

But when I see what is on the kitchen table, I stop. For what is on the kitchen table is not a note at all.

Not a note.

It's my note_book_.

Feeling the world turn to gray and ash around my ears, I pounce.

It's my little red notebook, and it lies on the kitchen table open to the final entry that I had written yesterday morning. The entry in which somehow, in all my meaningless scribble, I mention that I'm going to go on a walk north of town. The entry that trails off abruptly with a long, violent streak of red pen when I had become frustrated with my train of thought and decided to start my walk earlier than planned. And planned to do something entirely new on my walk.

But at least it is the same little red notebook that I had most assuredly _not_ left on the kitchen table. That fact is enough to keep my hope alive, and I cling to that hope like a rope on a sheer cliff. I look up to see Renee and Charlie hovering together in the doorway of the kitchen, watching me warily.

"Was the notebook here when you found it?" I ask Renee. I ask her this conversationally, as though I'm commenting on the fact that the weather in Forks is often dark and wet.

She shakes her head. "No, it was upstairs, on your bed."

Exactly where I had left it.

"Where on the bed?" I demand, wondering if I will be able to tell from her memory of its location whether it had been moved.

"What is this about?" she's tentative, tremulous.

I whirl and hit the refrigerator with the palm of one hand, hard enough to cause various fridge photos to fall to the floor. "Just tell me where it was on the friggin' bed!"

Renee just looks at me, wide eyes filling with tears. "Honey, I don't know; it was on the bed."

I look at a fallen picture on the floor, me sitting on a couch, sandwiched between both of my parents.

"I need you," I say, emphasizing each word carefully through clenched teeth, "to tell me exactly where on the bed."

Charlie and Renee are looking alarmed. They are looking worried. They are looking at me like I'm crazy.

"Bella," Renee says carefully, her voice wobbling only slightly through her tears. "The notebook was on your bed, on top of the covers, right near your pillow."

Exactly where I had left it.

I think.

I can't be sure.

In my hurry to get out of the house, I had just kinda tossed it. I don't remember where it landed on the bed. I don't remember if it landed opened or closed.

I don't remember.

My parents watch me wither up and die.

"Thanks," I say in a monotone. "That's all I needed to know."

I clutch the little red notebook to my chest like it's the last available life saver on a sinking Titanic. I turn toward the stairs. "I'm going to my room now."

Charlie and Renee just nod, slowly, like they're in shock. They don't try to stop me. As I walk away from them, I notice that Renee is clutching Charlie's hand, the hand on which still rests his wedding ring. I notice that his other hand is stroking her back, eventually drawing her into a hug.

Well.

At least some good is coming of this.

In their worry over me, my parents seem to be getting along just fine. Who knows, maybe my sinking to a new level of crazy will allow them to reconnect on a new emotional level. Maybe they'll realize what they've been missing all these years and will re-affirm their vows on the eve of their original seventeenth anniversary.

Maybe they will dance on my grave.


	9. The best gift of all

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

I have a problem.

That's not to say that I didn't have a problem before. But my problem has just graduated from your basic Algebra to your Calculus C differential equation. Not only have I confirmed to my family and friends that there is something seriously wrong with me, but I've done so in a public enough manner that those who were privy to my emotional breakdown (like Dr. Cullen) could not in good conscience stand idly by should my parents do nothing about it.

And through the ensuing freak show downstairs, I drove the final nail into my coffin. If my parents had been on the fence about my lunacy (which I hoped Charlie at least might have been), they are no longer.

My life as I know it is over.

I will not be allowed to go anywhere alone. I will not be allowed to drive. I will not be allowed to see Jacob or Alice. For all I know, when Dr. Cullen had advised Renee to make sure I "see" someone, he might have been code-wording that I need to be locked up in a padded cell with my very own huggy jacket.

At the very least, I bet that a three-month "vacation" to Italy is probably in order. And if I get locked up or go to Italy, I will never find Edward.

I'm on my own here. I can't count on Charlie's rapidly wavering faith in me. I can't trust in Alice to come up with a last-minute, hare-brained solution. And I certainly can't depend in any shape or form on Edward.

I can, however, depend on Jacob. Jacob is the only person who stops by that Sunday afternoon to see how I'm doing. I hear the doorbell ring and Charlie answer it. I hear Charlie conferring with someone outside. The timbre of this unknown person's voice is familiar enough to make me drag myself out of bed to see who it might be.

A blocky, retro red car is parked in the street, right below my window. Last time I saw this car, it couldn't possibly have made the drive because it lacked wheels. It was propped on cinderblocks in the corner of a garage.

Jacob has been busy these last few weeks.

The thought of him slaving away in his garage without me, head-banging to music and throwing tools for emphasis—it makes me sad.

My stomach clenches at the idea of Charlie turning him away.

I want to see Jacob. I want to talk to someone who doesn't know anything about this. Who doesn't know about Edward. I want to see the one person who makes me feel normal.

Please, Charlie, don't send Jacob away.

The murmur of voices ends.

I hear steps on the stairs.

"Bella," Charlie asks through the door. "You awake?"

"Yeah." He cracks the door but seems wary of sticking his head into my den.

"Jacob's here to see you."

I'm downstairs before you can say _schizophrenia_.

Jacob's waiting by his car, kicking one of the tires to gauge air pressure.

"Nice ride," I say, descending the porch. He smiles, but there's no white, my first clue that something's wrong.

Play it cool.

"Is it fast?" I joke, knowing that Jacob will get it.

He does. He's not amused.

"Why…do you want to see if we can drive it off a cliff somewhere?" His voice is the complete opposite of joking.

Something's very wrong. "Of course not."

"Hm," he says, but it's not a sound of agreement. "What was with the Hansel and Gretel in the woods last night?"

"I got lost. The hospital was complete overkill."

He stands looking down at his car, still kicking the same tire. "Why didn't you stop and talk to me then?"

Good question. "I didn't want you to see me like that."

"See you like what? If it wasn't a big deal, why didn't you just talk to me? I waited up all night for you, Bella. I was worried."

He's worried; he's frustrated; he might kick that tire right off.

"I'm sorry." I'm saying that a lot to Jacob. Too much.

He stops kicking the tire, swiveling to lean a foot against the front bumper. He lets my apology seep into the cracks.

Then he drops the bomb. "Who's Edward?"

It's the first time he's looked at me this since arriving; _really_ looked at me. Edward's name from those lips is like a curse word—unexpected and _wrong_.

"Where did you hear that name?" I demand.

Jacob's expression sours. "Let's just say I heard a lot last night while trying to find you."

There are so many things he could have heard; it makes my head hurt. It makes my heart hurt. I look away because looking into his broken gaze is breaking _me_.

He continues, "You told me there wasn't another guy, Bella."

"There's not." Not not not not not not.

"You said his name, in the woods. I heard you."

I fold my arms across my stomach, trying to hold it all in, trying to get myself warm. "I was delirious. The name was irrelevant."

Jacob regards me for a long moment. "I think he's more than relevant. I think he's the reason why you're doing this. I think he's the reason you're trying to kill yourself."

"I'm _not_ trying to kill myself," I snap. "We've talked about this."

"Then what's with the reckless dirt biking? The cliff diving? You _used_ me, Bella! You used me to enable your reckless activities."

My jaw clenches. "I told you up front I was looking for someone to be illicit with."

He scoffs. "You knew _exactly_ how that sounded to me. You kept your intentions purposefully vague. You said that you needed _time_. Time for what? Time to see if you'd really have the guts to commit suicide?"

"For the last time, I'm not trying to kill myself."

Jacob's nostrils flare, his shoulders tense, his hair flies. "Yes, you are," he says. "Even if you're not trying to end your life violently, you're certainly not living. You're wasting away, pursuing someone who can never love you the way I do."

I try to ignore what that means.

He can't possibly love me.

Not after what I've done to him.

"Edward doesn't even exist, Bella!"

His words are a punch to the jaw. I'm stunned, reeling. Jacob—my solid, pillar of strength, pinnacle of normalcy Jacob—thinks Edward is imaginary. He's joined the ranks of people who think I'm crazy.

"Don't you get it?" he continues. "You're holding on to someone who isn't real! Yet here I am, standing in front of you, a real boy, and you don't even care."

I care. I open my mouth to tell him how much. I open my mouth to tell him how protected he makes me feel, how normal, how special. I open my mouth to tell him all these things and more, but nothing comes out. Something stops me. If I say the words, things will change.

If I say the words, I'll give Jacob hope. Hope that maybe someday we can be together. Hope that maybe someday I'll be normal.

But I'm not normal.

I have a glitch in my brain.

My brain picks up the FM frequency when everyone around me hears only AM.

Jacob sees me hesitate, understands, shakes his head.

The moment has passed.

He says, "I can't do this anymore. I won't hurt you anymore." He wrenches the car door open, gets inside. "You want to hurt yourself? Find someone else to help."

He leaves me standing alone on the side of a long and lonesome road.

* * *

That night, as I lay myself down to sleep, I realize my problem is beyond Calculus.

With Jacob gone, I'm on my own. I no longer have a safety net. I'm going to have to save myself. At this point, there is only one way I know how to do that. Alice had been right so long ago. Alice is always right. She told me there's one way, and one way only, to make this all go away.

To save myself, I'm going to have to _lie_.

And I'm going to have to lie _well_.

I'm going to have to start looking my doctors and parents and peers in the eye and agree that no, Edward does not exist. Yes, he's just a figment of my overactive imagination.

My strategy is easier said than done. Problem is—I, like my father before me, am an exceedingly bad liar. I have a hard enough time telling someone I like their haircut when it looks like their head was run over by a lawn mower. Even when pressed on all sides by accusing eyes and lips and tongues, I haven't been able to lie about Edward.

But to get myself out of this mess, to preserve my freedom, to preserve what's left of my sanity, I'm going to have to lie. If I don't, I might be locked up forever, sedated up to my eyeballs, a blubbering, drooling mess in the corner of my very own padded cell.

Not exactly the way I plan on spending the rest of my life.

To lie, and to lie well, I'm going to have to practice.

But first, I will have to beg.

Monday morning, I'm up before my alarm. Or maybe I didn't sleep; I'm not sure. I brush my teeth and comb my hair and put on my nicest shirt. I walk down to where my parents are enjoying companionable bowls of instant oatmeal, one of the few breakfast items Renee can cook without scorching.

I stand calmly in front of them and beg to go to school. I tell them that I need my routine, I need to feel normal, I need the distraction of school. I tell them these things because I need a broad cross section of humanity on which to practice the art of lying. It won't do to try out my dubious skills on my parents and psychiatrists first. I need to spread my wings on my teachers, my peers, my neighbors.

If I can fool them, I can fool the one who really matters.

I don't know if it is my words or my face or my eyes that finally sway Charlie in the end.

"I'll take you to school," he agrees gruffly, avoiding Renee's shocked gaze. "But I'll be there to pick you up in one shake of a lamb's tail if you need me."

The first thing I discover as I walk through the halls is that a large contingent of the student body has heard about my little escapade over the weekend. Something having to do with the fact that half the town's able-bodied men had been out searching for me Saturday night.

As far as practice goes, this is about as perfect as it can get.

I walk through school with my perfectly groomed hair and my perfectly apologetic smile and start to tell everyone my perfect little cover story about the weekend. I tell Jessica that I was on a "camping trip" with Jacob Black, waggling my eyebrows suggestively in just the right spot. I tell Lauren I spent the weekend rediscovering the joys of Mother Nature. I tell Bree Tanner that Jacob has many hidden talents.

And I smirk.

I swear-to-God, may-have-fooled-around _**smirk**_.

Yeah, that's right—Jacob's not even here, but I'm still using him.

I try not to think about this.

By the end of the day, the gossip mill churns with the fact that Bella Swan, honor student and overachiever extraordinaire, has finally gone off the deep end. Fortunately for me, it's the socially acceptable deep end.

Suddenly, I'm Miss Popular. Suddenly, I'm receiving requests to party at this person's house or that. Everyone wants a piece of this, and there are certainly enough pieces of me to go around. Roughly a million pieces of my fractured mind and soul.

My parents are sitting together in the cab of Charlie's truck to pick me up from school. When some of my newfound friends notice, I tell them that we're headed into Port Angeles for some family bonding time.

"Aren't your parents divorced?" Mike says from beside me. Naturally, he was the first person to jump back on the Bella bandwagon.

"They're thinking about getting back together," I lie, hoping that this particular lie is not true.

I get in the truck, and Renee scooches over a little too close to Charlie.

"Who are all these nice kids?" she coos, waving at them out the window. Mike waves enthusiastically back.

"My friends," I say. My parent's heads whip to look at me.

I ignore their shock and chatter on about the fact that I've had an absolutely great day. I tell them that I must have hit rock bottom over the weekend because things are really looking up. I must tell them exactly what they want to hear because they continue letting me go to school.

At school, I continue lying.

I tell Tyler that I can't go to prom with him because I have non-refundable tickets to Hawaii. I tell Yorkie that the aliens are back in town and have been asking for him. I get up in front of my biology classmates and Mr. Banner himself and give a serious and meticulously researched study about a fictitious mineral called Cummingtonite.

I get an A.

When someone starts to catch me in one lie, I merely make up an even more elaborate lie to cover up my first. And the thing is, people totally buy it. Bella Swan, honor student with perfect grades and attendance records dating back to the first grade, is trustworthy. Good thing they don't know I'm crazy.

I'm careful, of course, to only lie about myself. The better I get at it, the more tempting it is to tell Jessica that Mike is going to ask her to prom or that Mr. Banner has a thing for the lunch lady. But lying about other people is like stirring a big pot of bubbling crazy. While I'm sure the resulting mess would be amusing, I'm not ready to see my high school go up in flames.

No, I'm not out to hurt anybody. I'm just practicing up for my main event, the championship game, the lie to end all lies. But this lie will not be for my parents or my psychiatrists.

This lie is for Alice.

If I can lie to Alice, the mistress of deception herself, I can lie to anyone. If I can lie to Alice, I might finally be free.

* * *

Winter passes in a steady drizzle. Fortunately, the season is peppered with a slew of holiday events, the better to keep our flailing spirits from lagging through the rain-slogged months. Forks throws itself into Fall break, Halloween, Thanksgiving, any excuse to get together and warm away the chill. I kid you not, we even celebrate World Mental Health day on October 10. A Forks favorite.

Despite appearance, my spirits are sunk. I don't go anywhere for Fall break, don't dress up for Halloween, and don't cook my usual feast for Thanksgiving. Renee celebrates with us, and she's not big on tradition. She's not big on cooking. We order pizza.

Then I look up, and it's twelve days 'til Christmas.

How stereotypical.

I feel anything but merry.

Christmas is usually my favorite holiday. Alice and I delight in coming up with the perfect gifts for each other. This Christmas, the only present I plan to give her will be a lie. If I can lie to Alice, if I can convince her that Edward does not exist, then I can lie to anyone. I can lie to my doctors and my parents and even Jacob.

I might even be able to convince myself.

But first, Alice.

I plan the big showdown for Christmas break. The timing will be perfect. For one, Alice is more manic about Christmas than she is about anything else in her life—and that's saying something. For two, I figure that the holiday will give us space, which I'm pretty sure we'll need after this little conversation.

To begin, I will tell Alice enough of the truth that she'll recognize it's still me in here. That she isn't talking to a persona I've affected for the sole purpose of convincing the doctors I'm cured. She's been there. I'm sure she's done that. She'd recognize that particular t-shirt.

Next, I will explain to Alice my (false) reasoning why I know Edward isn't real. I will tell her that, one by one, I've learned of the "real" reasons behind the odd events we had discussed earlier this year when comparing notes.

I'm thankful that I've never told her about the book. I don't think I could have explained away the book. But I can't think about the book, or she'll see it in my eyes. If I can't lie with my eyes, then I can't lie at all. Lying is all in the eyes.

Finally, I will have to deny my belief in Edward. I will have to deny that he exists. I will have to deny his name.

Three times, three ways.

It should be enough.

But what should be enough is never enough for Alice. It never has been.

On the first day of Christmas, I'm knocking on the Brandon's front door. I'm staring into the center of a wreath made out of silver bells. They jingle merrily as Alice's mom answers the door.

"Hey Mrs. Brandon. Is Alice here?" Part of me hopes she's not. Part of me hopes she's off cruising the Port Angeles storefront for last-minute accessories or gifts. Or making snow angels down on main street. Anything but sitting up in her room.

"Of course, dear. She's up in her room."

Since it wouldn't be socially acceptable for me to turn tail at this point, I step inside. I trudge upstairs and knock on Alice's bedroom door, which she has artfully wrapped in cream and silver like it's a giant present. I'm not sure she can hear me over the holiday music blaring from her speakers, but she immediately sings out, "Come in!"

Each year, Alice spends the week after Thanksgiving decorating her room according to whatever Christmas theme she has dreamt up that year.

This year, the theme is clearly snow.

I step into Alice's Winter Wonderland.

Her room is draped in a blanket of white, from the white twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling to the white quilt on her bed to the miniature white Christmas tree floating on a white tablecloth in the center of the room.

Even her hair is a stunning platinum. I've never seen Alice as a blonde, but it works.

She watches my face for a moment as I take the time to appreciate her finesse, and then she grabs my hand. We rock around the Christmas tree. I had at first questioned the user-friendliness of having a tree in such a perilous location, but I should have known better than to question the method behind her madness.

I stop my approximation of dancing when I remember why I'm here. Alice has always been good at that—sucking me in to her little world and making me forget the real one. I walk over to her CD player and am about to shut it off entirely when the track switches to an instrumental version of _Silent Night_.

That'll do.

That melancholy sound will provide the perfect backdrop for what I'm about to say. I settle for turning the volume down until the song is only an undercurrent in the still space.

Then I turn to face my friend.

"Alice," I say. "You're my best friend. That's why I have to tell you the truth."

She's still smiling, her cheeks merry cherries. "The truth about what?"

I follow my three-step strategy to a "T" and watch the requisite emotions—horror, sadness, doubt—flit across her face and land forever in her eyes. In the order I expected. In the intensity I expected.

I tell her that I've realized the truth about Edward. I tell her that my psychiatrists have helped me see the light. That Edward is an imaginary friend I fabricated to deal with first the trauma of Renee leaving and then the trauma of the Port Angeles incident. I'm comforted that there is someone who will never leave me. I'm comforted that I have a savior to watch over my foibles.

With my guileless eyes locked on hers, I sell my pre-rehearsed speech so well that if I'd never heard it before, if I hadn't made it up myself, I wouldn't have known it's all a lie.

"We've been enabling each other all these years," I say.

As I speak, I watch her eyes get larger and glassier, filling with unshed tears and doubt.

"But that doesn't explain Port Angeles," she says.

"Those guys were drunk. It was traumatic. Our imaginations ran wild."

Alice just stares at me. Then, "But what about the wind?"

Her voice has risen an octave above normal. That's how I know I'm really getting to her. She hates it when she sounds like a child. I can't let her get to me.

I shrug. "I checked the weather reports from that day. Lots of wind that evening." I even have a website URL ready to spew should she ask.

She doesn't.

She just stares.

Her lip quivers.

I stare back, silent on this silent night, waiting for a barrage of questions about Edward. I expect her to grill me more about Port Angeles and all of the other things I've told her about Edward over the last months.

But she doesn't.

"Bella," she says, so softly that her words blend almost seamlessly with the strains of the music continuing to waft through her speakers. "Are you telling me that you don't think Jasper is real?"

_Jasper_, she says.

Not Edward.

And this is it, ladies and gentlemen.

The moment a lie goes off script, you see if you can really pull it off.

The moment your best friend since the womb asks you if you really, truly think she's crazy, you find out if all that time you spent lying to yourself in front of the mirror was worth it. You find out what you're really made of.

And I guess what I'm made of is 100 percent pure, unadulterated horse doo doo.

Because I keep my eyes locked on my best friend. I don't think any thoughts that will cause the emotions in my eyes to swim or waver. I don't think about how I'm betraying every ounce of trust in me that she's ever had. I don't think about how much I'm going to hate myself later.

Instead, I say, "No, Alice. Jasper is most definitely not real."

As I say it, Alice looks directly into my eyes, as intently as if they are twin crystal balls telling her future. They must tell her exactly what she needs to see because her eyes go hard and dark and dangerous. She flips her head at me in that way that sometimes is meant to drive the boys wild.

But I know that this time it means, _Get out of my life._

I get.

* * *

I don't cry.

As I creep home from Alice's house, my eyes are free of even a single tear. I drive by the storefronts along Main Street bedecked with holiday cheer, golden light streaming from their every orifice. I put on my blinker at all the right times, come to a complete stop at least three feet before each stop sign, and even slow to let a little old lady, arms lined with shiny packages, jaywalk across the street.

I'm the epitome of rational and collected.

After all, I've done the right thing. I've done Alice a favor. I've given her the best Christmas present of all. I will no longer enable her delusions. I will no longer allow her to feed off me like we are good little co-conspirators. I will no longer serve as her gateway to the fantasy world that we've lived in together.

I'm starting to believe my own lies.

When I get home, I make my way carefully inside, up the stairs, and into my room. I sit carefully on the edge of my bed.

"Bella?" Renee says, tapping on my door lightly. I haven't even closed the door all the way behind me, so it nudges open a little with the force of her knuckles. I've gotten into the habit of leaving my door open recently, just a bit. Anything to make Renee and Charlie feel like I'm different. Like I'm better.

"What's up?" I say with false holiday cheer. Renee steps into my room.

"Alice called while you were gone."

Dread slimes my stomach. "She did?"

"She asked me to give you your Christmas present early," she says, holding out a flat, square present artfully decorated in the same crystalline tones permeating Alice's bedroom.

On a good day, Alice is quite skilled with that heavy paper, the shiny ribbon, and the curls. This day had clearly been an exceptional day. I take the splendidly wrapped present from Renee. It's light, so light that it would blow away in the slightest of breezes.

"Thanks," I say with a contorted smile. For a second, Renee hesitates, like she wants to stick around and see what the elaborate wrapping is hiding. I lay the present down on the bed and pick up the binder that contains holiday homework.

When teachers give the opportunity for extra credit, I take them up on it.

She takes the hint.

"Goodnight, sweetie," she says, moving in close to kiss me on the forehead. Then she's gone, shutting my bedroom door behind her.

I sit looking at Alice's package beside me on the bed. Its pristine beauty looks out of place in my frumpy, dark room, like a pair of sparkling Prada heels at a garage sale.

Each year, Alice delights in buying or making me the perfect present. Gifts in previous years have included thick, stylish oven mitts; an early edition of _Wuthering Heights_; and the amazing collage of Bella/Alice pictures and sketches that currently hangs over my bed. One year, it was a butt pad, a two-in-one gift that not only cushions me when I fall but also makes my flat rear more curvaceous.

This year, I don't know what to expect.

Part of me wants to just return the gift, to leave it with her mom the next time I'm in her neighborhood. After the "gift" I've just given her, it doesn't seem fair to accept a real one in return. But the other part of me wants to know what is so significant about this particular gift that prompted Alice to have Renee give it to me anyway.

I have to know.

Flipping the present over, I carefully slide my finger under the nearly invisible tape arranged artfully to hold the edges of the wrapping paper together. Alice knows me well; she hasn't left any sharp edges exposed to my paper-cut prone fingers.

As I reveal each subsequent piece of the present, my heart expands in my chest.

There, on a piece of cream paper, is the sketch of Edward that Alice had shown me so many moons ago in a tree house. His hair is as windswept as I remember, his brows as menacing.

But his eyes—they're present. They're open.

And they're looking right at me.

Those eyes are rimmed with dark lashes that contrast sharply with the light color of his irises. The sketch is in shades of black, so I can't be sure if the eyes are blue or green or gray. Regardless of their color, those eyes make this face. They transform the features from dangerous and disturbing to sensitive and sublime.

Even as my emotions soar, they quickly sink. For I can say with absolute certainty that I've never seen this face in real life.

This is a face you don't forget.

I tear my gaze away from Edward's, flipping the sketch over to see what Alice may have put on the back. In a lower corner, I see her signature, the date, and a short note.

It says, "He opened his eyes."

For the first time since leaving Alice's house, I cry.

I cry a lot.


	10. A wonderful life

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

I sit and stare at the sketch of Edward.

He stares at me back.

Those light-colored, maybe-blue-green-gray eyes bore into mine with an unerring accuracy. I've always known that Alice is talented; I've never grasped to what extent. Edward's gaze is so full of life that it makes me uncomfortable, jittery, like he can read my mind, like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. I shift my weight to the right, to the left, but I cannot escape those eyes.

They are unsettling.

They are intense.

They are sad.

This man-child is looking at me like I'm something he needs, like I'm something he can never have. Hold the sketch in front of my face, and he's me, his expression a mirror of my own. Except that _his_ side of the mirror is perfection personified. I don't even know how this is possible—taken individually, his features aren't perfect. Eyebrows are a little heavy, nose a little thick, lips a little thin. Yet in the sum of these imperfections lies perfection. His face is imperfectly perfect.

Too perfect.

No one looks like this.

No one would look at _me_ like this.

The question is: Am I even looking at Edward? Or am I instead looking at Alice? Did Alice draw me the picture of the perfect man, a manifestation of her own delusions, of her own insecurities? Am I looking at Alice's emotions, Alice's pain shining from those soulful eyes?

I can't know.

But what I _do_ know, of what I am absolutely certain, is that this sketch sitting on my bed—it can't stay here. As much as I would like to have it sit and stare at me forever, as much as I would like it to be the first thing I see when the sun comes up and the last thing when it goes down, it can't be. Like Edward himself, it can't be present. It can't be visible.

I can't risk my parents seeing it and asking questions.

I can't continue to allow myself unrequited hope.

So I begin re-working the wrapping paper in a clumsily facsimile of Alice's handiwork. As with all re-wraps, the edges don't line up right, the corners aren't crisp. The last thing I see before folding down the final flap is the woe in those eyes.

I bury the sketch deep in my closet, in a shoebox filled with remnants of my childhood.

The symbolism doesn't escape me.

Here I am, putting Edward away, just like I would childish things. I can't keep running after him like a toddler with arms forever outstretched. Even if he sees me, he's not picking me up. He's not comforting me. He's letting me fall.

I have to catch myself for a change.

* * *

I'll make my move on Christmas Day.

I don't know—maybe the holiday cheer, the goodwill on earth, the eggnog will help diffuse the bomb I'm about to drop on my parents. I've told the Mount Sinai of lies, I've convinced Alice that I don't believe that Edward and Jasper are real. Now it's time for Moses to come down from the mountain; I must share my message with the rest of my world.

To start, I cook an extra-special holiday dinner, replete with the almond bark candies that Charlie so loves at this time of year. I encourage Renee to make her special figgy pudding and even moan in a facsimile of delight when I take the first bite.

Renee entertains us with stories of her and Charlie's first Christmas together. Apparently, candles had been all the rage that year, and Renee had gone overboard on the trend until the house resembled a liturgy service in a Catholic church. Needless to say, they didn't make flame-retardant Christmas trees back then.

I've never seen Charlie laugh so much as he recounts how the fire extinguisher coated the living room with "snow." Beaming like this with his eyes all crinkled, he looks like the young rascal my mom fell in love with.

After today, I may never see him smile again.

"More cranberry sauce?" I ask "More pie? More eggnog?"

This moment—I don't ever want it to end.

Of course, it does.

Too soon, Renee can't eat another bite. Too soon, Charlie suggests we move into the living room. They want to watch the end of _It's a Wonderful Life_, which Renee had playing in the background through dinner. _Ambiance_, she said, when really, she just wants to skip the sad parts. I haven't watched that movie since I was little.

I wave off their attempts to help me clear the table, bartering for time that has almost run out. As I clank plates and pots around in the sink, soaping and scrubbing, I hear their laughter like silver bells. I hear George Bailey proclaiming _Merry Christmas_ as he cavorts down the street. I hear Clarence get his wings.

I try very, very hard not to think about Edward.

Alone. In the cold. As always.

Maybe some angel came down from heaven and wiped _Edward_ from the face of the earth. Maybe he's watching me right now through a kitchen window leaking yellow into the dark, remembering some alternate reality I've forgotten in which he and I had been friends, lovers even. Maybe he's seeing me smile, and, in some perverse twist of the movie playing behind me, is realizing that my life is truly better without him in it.

Please don't let that be the moral of my story.

Of our story.

I can't think about Edward.

I can't think about Edward because of what I'm about to do.

When the last dish is rinsed, the last pot polished to a gleaming dry, I take one last look out the darkened window above the sink. I see my reflection, cheeks pink with exertion and lingering laughter. Try as I might, I can't look past the reflection.

So I turn and stand at the fringe of the living room, drinking it all in. The contrast between this year and last is extreme. A year ago today, this room was filled with nothing more than the sounds of sports, the smell of frying fish and beer, and a Charlie Brown tree in the corner, replete with a single, oversized bauble.

This year, lights dance from flickering candles, from winking strands of tree lights, and from black-and-white scenes of a Christmas classic. Scents waft from the fresh pine Renee insisted we chop ourselves from the Crowley's tree farm, from the cinnamon in the garland and the spice in the fruit cake and everything else nice.

I stand and bask in this bubble of warm, happy family a long moment, for two, for three.

Then: "Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you," I say. I say this just as the credits roll, just after good ol' George has reminded us yet again that the world would be a dark place without us in it.

Charlie and Renee crane to look at me, their faces still alight with hope.

I walk into the living room and turn off the flat screen. Although I don't think that I will have any problem keeping my parents' attention once I get started, I need them to know that this is serious. They exchange wary glances. Whatever they are expecting me to say, they can see from my face that it's not necessarily something pleasant. I stand in front of them, exposed, the coffee table between us my meager podium.

I take a deep breath.

"I have something important to tell you," I say. "Something about Edward."

Instantly, my parents freeze, mouths open, hands and feet still. Their eyes say, _Oh no, please tell me we're not about to go on this merry-go-round again_. I can almost see the holiday spirit drain from their sobering faces.

"It was never schizophrenia," I say. My words register in Charlie's expression in an instant, though he still looks wary. Renee remains foggy, still trying to smile despite her frown, so I continue. "I was doing drugs."

The d-word.

The last word any parent ever wants to hear out of their child's mouth.

"What?" Renee thinks she heard me wrong.

"My hallucinations about Edward," I say, "were chemically induced."

"But…but…" Renee sputters. Charlie's eyes harden, and he looks past me, toward the dark, empty TV. "But you were tested…you said on your medical history forms…"

"I lied," I lie. "I'd been clean for weeks. But I had been using for a while when this all started."

I watch as this information visibly impacts each of my parents. Charlie sags back against the couch, as though he can't stay upright any longer.

"Drugs…" Renee says faintly, her face blanching like she's going to be sick. "My daughter…"

"Why didn't you just tell us?" Charlie says, still staring into the TV as if he could somehow reach out and recapture the magic of only a few moments ago.

This is the hard part. This is the question that I'd been afraid that Charlie himself would ask, in just this way. That distant stare, that overly calm face, that tremble in his tone.

"Because I didn't want to disappoint you."

Renee jumps in. "So you thought it would be better for us to think that you had an incurable mental illness? That you were going to end up like my mother?" she demands, her face tight. "What in the world were you thinking?"

"I _wasn't_ thinking…I never expected things to go this far."

Renee stares at me. Charlie stares away from me, which is ten times worse.

"Oh, Bella," Renee moans, standing to pace. "Do you even understand the ramifications of what you've done?"

I do. I had thought through the repercussions of this particular lie more thoroughly than any other. And I know that the consequences I'm about to experience are going to be some of the most painful in my life. I only vaguely listen to Renee enumerate the consequences as she sees them.

She says, "We've run up a small fortune on our insurance."

She says, "Your teachers and peers are never going to look at you the same way again."

She says, "This will go on your permanent medical record. You can kiss your chances of a college scholarship goodbye. You might have difficulty getting a job…"

I listen to her say these things, but I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. The shoe that matters. The Charlie shoe.

Renee continues worrying about the ways in which people will perceive her and me and the Swan/Dwyer name, and I stop listening altogether. I just watch Charlie, who seems to be watching phantom images flicker across the screen.

When Renee is finally spent, like a child crying itself to sleep in its crib, I see that Charlie is finally ready to speak. I hold my breath.

"This is serious, Bella," he says, still to the TV.

"I know."

Silent, I can only wait.

"I'm ashamed of you." His soft tone hits me with the force of a thousand battering rams. I nearly stagger under the weight of it. He continues speaking—quiet, deadly. "I'm ashamed that you would ever have even considered putting an illegal substance into your body, much less do so. I'm ashamed that you lied to cover it up. But most of all, I'm ashamed that you waited so long to tell us the truth."

My head is too heavy; my chin drops to my chest. I'm ashamed of myself as well. Charlie is silent for a long while, steeping me in my shame.

"So this is what we're going to do. First off, you're going to apologize. You're going to apologize to your doctors, the other kids you went to therapy with, everyone who knows. Everyone who has been affected by this."

My stomach sinks, but I nod. I was hoping that I would be able to fade off everyone's radar. Stop going to therapy, stop interacting with my former friends. And I guess I can still do that—after I lie to them all one more time.

Charlie isn't done. "And I'm going to need to know details. I'm going to need to know which drugs, how long, and from whom."

For the first time, fear shoots through my body like an injection of liquid nitrogen. I'm prepared to answer which drugs and how long, but I don't know how to answer the "from whom." I so desperately want to take the easy way out. I want to give Charlie the name of someone who I know probably deals drugs and who is high often enough himself that he likely won't remember that he hasn't, in fact, dealt any to me.

I want to say _Eric Yorkie_.

But although I am nearly positive that Yorkie deals drugs and that he's offered them to me in that offhand way of his on more than one occasion, I can't in good conscience take him down with me on this. This is _my_ crash and burn. I don't want to shatter anyone else in the process.

I raise my chin to Charlie. "I'll tell you whatever you need to know. The only thing I can't tell you is from whom I got them."

And Charlie looks at me for the first time. He looks at me, but not like I'm his daughter. He's glaring at me like I'm a hostile witness.

"It's a felony to sell or give out drugs period, much less to a minor."

"Yes sir," I agree helplessly, already wilting under his stare, a stare that I've never before seen directed at me.

He barks, "You are going to tell me who gave you those drugs so I can get that person help if it's a kid or put them in jail if it's an adult."

He stares me down, and I do my best to continue meeting his eyes. As I've said, lying is all in the eyes. But my eyes don't even have to lie to be scared now. Charlie the cop is the scariest thing I have ever seen.

"I can't tell you," I whisper.

"Can't, or won't?" The words are slap one, two in my face.

I turn my head away. I thought that I couldn't feel more shame, but I can.

"Was it Alice?" he asks, teeth clenched.

"No!" The word explodes from my chest. I'm shocked and dismayed that he's even gone there. "Why would you even think that?"

Charlie and Renee look at each other for a second. Then Renee says, "Alice has been on medication for her own…illness."

Alice had mentioned medication, but only medication in Italy. She hadn't said anything about medication recently. Nevertheless…

"Alice has nothing to do with this."

"Dr. K thinks that Alice has a lot to do with this," Renee interjects.

"Yeah, well. Dr. K also diagnosed me with schizophrenia, so…"

Renee is quick to jump to K's defense, of course. "He didn't have all the information—"

"Was it that York character?" Charlie interrupts.

I freeze.

Now is the moment of truth. Or not, depending on what I decide. How very easy it would be to move my head up and down, once. I wouldn't even have to say anything at all, and I would be saying everything.

"No," I say firmly, showing him with my eyes that I speak the truth.

And Charlie's eyes show me that he doesn't believe my truth. They show me that he is angry and hurt and sad. But, most importantly, they show me that he no longer trusts me. They show me that he might never trust me again.

"Go to your room," he says. "I don't want to see you right now. And you're grounded for…the rest of your life."

As far as consequences go, this one is by far the worst. Not the grounding, of course. But the fact that the sight of me pains my father. And the fact that I've lost his trust—perhaps forever.

* * *

Later, I sit in the eternal darkness of my room. It doesn't matter what time of day it is. It doesn't matter if the sun or moon holds vigil outside my window. It doesn't matter if it's Christmas or New Year's or any day in between. It doesn't matter anymore—the darkness is always here.

And in the darkness, I say my final farewell to a creature who has forever relegated himself to the darkness of my soul.

My farewell is thus: "I hate you."

The darkness does not respond.


	11. Goodbye

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

If Charlie is Forks' very own superhero, then drugs are his nemesis.

Drugs are the number one cause of the crimes, car accidents, and domestic disputes that he deals with day in, day out. Drugs are the reason behind the blood he sees pooled on the highway and the blood vessels he sees broken in women's faces. In confessing that I've done drugs, I knew exactly what I was doing. His own daughter. The same little girl he'd bounced on his knee to a "Drugs are for Dummies" ditty. I knew exactly how much it would hurt him. I knew exactly whose blood and guts he'd be picturing smeared on dark asphalt next.

He can't even look at me.

I know it's because he can't bear to see me dead.

I know it, but knowing doesn't make it hurt any less.

The remainder of my winter break is more bleak than the weather. I huddle in my room, swaddled in blankets, and don't do much of anything. Charlie works long hours, leaving earlier and arriving later, no doubt single-handedly trying to rid Clallam County of even a single little red or blue pill.

Renee is naturally empathetic (as _bona fide_ hippies are wont to be on this subject), but she respects Charlie's feelings on the matter. She presents a united front. I'm bitter; they're acting more like a married couple now than when they were actually married.

The start of school—normally the highlight of my year—can't raise my spirits. Day 1, my gaze finds the railing where Alice usually perches in the morning, waiting eagerly for me to arrive. The spot is empty, as forlorn as the leafless trees lining the parking lot. I ascend the steps slowly, like they are sucking sand.

When I do see Alice later in the day, she staunchly ignores me in the halls, in our classes, in the cafeteria. And I let her. I don't protest when she starts eating lunch with Angela, leaving me to fend for myself. I sit with Jessica and Lauren and join in on their fake smiles, fake laughs, fake lives. Despite this miniature musical chairs in the lunchroom, things don't change much for me. I keep lying. When Mike asks me three Fridays in a row if I want to do something with him that weekend, I at last break down and tell him no because—hasn't he heard?—I like girls. He high-tails it into the comfort of Jessica's arms so quick that I can't believe I hadn't thought of it before.

After Easter, I come down from my room early one morning and notice that Charlie's blanket is still draped over the back of the couch, exactly where it had been the night before. And I wake up late one evening from an impromptu nap and could have sworn that I heard more than one person giggling in the shower. As if giggling alone in the shower is not cause enough for concern.

Junior prom inspires hubbubaloo that I mostly ignore. Alice does not make me a prom dress. She makes one for Angela instead, a plum gown that perfectly complements Angela's dark hair and olive complexion.

Nobody bothers to ask me to prom, not even any girls.

I don't bother to attend.

* * *

Summer passes in a lazy haze.

I haven't been allowed to read in so long, I make up for it now, challenging myself to read the entire A section at the public library.

By the end of August, I'm halfway through C.

* * *

Senior year.

Senior year, people change. They get serious. They realize that, in a few short months, they're no longer going to be big man on campus; they're going to be the littlest minnow in a broad sea. The thought is sobering.

Jessica Stanley stops dressing like a slut and starts campaigning to become valedictorian. Yeah, apparently you can campaign for this. Her tactics involve bribing Daniel Diggory, the front runner for the position and obvious virgin, to fail his next five tests, thereby skewing his average just enough to allow her to take the lead. I don't want to think about how she bribed him. I don't want to think about how she had good enough grades in the first place.

Maybe she's smarter than we all have guessed.

Even more surprising is Yorkie's transformation. One day, he comes to school, and his hair is no longer pink. He's even wearing a tie. A black on black tie, so you can hardly see it, but hey, it's there. Come to think of it, I haven't heard him mention aliens or seen him slinking behind the school in months.

Glad I didn't rat him out to Charlie.

I've never looked forward to senior year, and now that my disaster of a junior year is over, I look forward to being a senior even less. I don't think I can handle another mindless year full of mindless hours of mindless classes.

Everyone's growing, changing, moving on.

Everyone but me.

So I make a plan. This plan involves a packed class schedule and long discussions with the guidance counselor. The plan involves essays being written and applications being filled out and stamps being licked. The plan involves a new place, a new start, a new Bella.

The plan is to graduate from high school a semester early and attend a college far, far away.

Renee and Charlie don't like this plan.

Renee says, "You're still grounded, young lady."

I say, "It's been nearly six months. I've done everything you've asked."

Renee says, "What about your friends? What about prom? What about graduation?"

I tell her that I will make new friends, that dancing isn't my thing, and that walking across a stage in rickety heels merely to collect a piece of paper is dangerous for me even on a good day.

Renee said, "You're too young to go to college."

I say, "You've always said I am responsible beyond my years."

Renee says, "How can we trust you?"

I say, "I promise that I will not drink or smoke or swallow or snort anything. Ever."

Charlie doesn't say anything at all. As always, his silence is far, far worse than Renee's words.

I assume that's the end of it. I assume I'm going to have to stick out my full senior year. I assume that I'm only going to be able to escape after I turn eighteen and am legally able to live on my own.

Then I receive a thick manila envelope from Dartmouth.

From _Dartmouth_, and Renee stops complaining. Charlie's eyes glisten, though he doesn't smile. He never smiles anymore.

"Ivy League!" Renee gushes to her yoga ladies, her hairdresser, anyone who will listen.

You guessed it.

I'm no longer grounded.

* * *

My first and last semester of senior year is a television show in fast forward. I work hard in all my classes and work even harder maintaining my semblance of normalcy. I laugh at the right moments and lie at the right moments. But, unlike in a television show, I never get caught.

I watch Alice grow even quieter, her hair drooping in uncharacteristic brown, clothes becoming muted. I continue ignoring her. I tell myself it's for her own good. She's better off without me.

My final day of high school is just another day for my friends and teachers, who are so distracted by yet another Christmas holiday that they hardly notice it might be the last time they will ever see me. The final bell rings, and I almost sneak out of the building before the sound finishes reverberating throughout the familiar halls.

Almost, but not quite.

"Miss Swan," someone says, and I turn to see Dr. Matthews leaning against the door to her office. The reindeer antlers on her head clash unapologetically with her intricately cross-stitched candy cane sweater. "Might I have a word?"

I haven't spoken to Dr. Matthews in months, not since I had dropped the dreaded d-bomb on my parents. Teenagers on drugs is beneath Dr. Matthews' brand of group therapy.

She gestures me into her office and closes the door behind us.

"Have a seat." I eye the pink yoga ball she's provided as an alternative to the traditional visitor's chair. I remain standing.

Dr. Matthews settles regally onto her ball (you have to keep your back very straight to avoid toppling to the floor). "I understand this is your final day at Forks High."

I'm surprised that Dr. Matthews, of all people, remembered my name, much less the fact that I'm graduating from high school early.

I nod, not sure where she's going with this.

"I just wanted to wish you good luck," she says, "and give you a piece of advice."

My breath is decidedly not baited, but I gamely wait for her final nugget of "wisdom." She looks seriously at me with bleary, magnified eyes.

Wait for it…

"In Forks, there are no spoons."

There it is.

She's informally called "Dr. Crazy" for a reason. I nod politely and wish her a happy holiday. Then I back away slowly, preparing to haul tail.

"Bella," she says, and I stiffen to a stop. "You may have fooled your family, your friends, and Los Tres Amigos at the Forks Medical Center, but your mask can't fool me."

I stare at her, my hand on the doorknob.

"If you ever need to talk, to _really_ talk, I'm here."

Somehow, these simple words delivered by this kooky yet sincere woman tug at something within me. In this moment, I've never wanted to _really_ talk more strongly in my life. I want to have an honest conversation with someone for the first time in months. I want to tell her that I've started lying and I'm afraid that I won't be able to stop. I want to tell her that I'm afraid my daddy will never love me again. I want to tell her that I still believe in Edward.

Despite myself, I smile at her through my mask, the first real smile that I've smiled in nearly 365 days, since last Christmas. Since Charlie. Since Alice.

"Thank you," I say, and I mean it.

And then I flee before my mask comes undone, before I can tell Dr. Matthews any of those things that I want so desperately to tell her. I flee because my mask is all I have left; if I lose it now, I won't recognize the person in the mirror.

* * *

School's out, and I have two weeks.

Two weeks until I leave this place.

I'm free to do whatever I want, go wherever I please. The thing about freedom, though, is that it's best enjoyed with someone else. The tree house, a little red garage on the reservation, La Push beach—these places are only places without the people.

Still, I have to do something.

To start, step outside the house. Leave the tank languishing in the driveway because I don't want people to hear me coming. Step onto the dark asphalt road, the one that leads away from people, away from town. Breathe deep the air filtered by a host of trees. Walk until my calves burn.

Think of anything but you-know-who.

The thought of not thinking of him gives me pause, and I stop walking. Even while I'm no longer actively seeking he-who-must-not-be-named, I still feel him. Not to feel him would be not to breathe. He's as omnipresent and essential as oxygen.

Except, of course, when he's not. There are times when I can't feel him watching me. Times when the layer of his presence lifts like a sheet off my face. Times when my skin doesn't prickle faintly and my neck doesn't blush and burn.

Those times are rare, but they do occur.

Like right now.

In these times, I live in a whole new world. I notice all kinds of things that I don't usually. Like how quiet the forest is _not_ and how being alone is both scary and thrilling and how there, directly across from where I'm standing, is a gravel road disappearing into the brush.

I stare. Stare and stare.

Blink, and the road is still there. I have ridden this highway a thousand times, and I have never once seen this gravel path. The woods hold more secrets than we will ever know.

The unknown road beckons because that's what they do. Roads are made to be followed.

Look left.

Look right.

Then cross the main road and step onto its tributary. My adrenaline surges at the thought of adventure. At the thought that I'm truly alone to experience it. But only a few paces in, I discover a clue as to the road's destination—a beautifully appointed mailbox partially obscured by a draping tree limb. I step closer to peer at the elegant script its face…

The mailbox belongs to none other than Dr. and Mrs. Cullen.

I had always heard that they lived out here, out on the edge of town, but I had never known exactly where. I had never known exactly how close.

I hesitate, no longer eager to cross into the territory that the mailbox guards, a lone sentinel. I had merely wanted to see where this path led; I certainly do not want to trespass on someone's private residence. I wonder what that residence looks like. There was lots of talk when they built it, their modern marvel of glass and steel, an anachronism in Forks…

There I stand, my weight evenly distributed between coming and going, when I hear it.

Music.

A faint waft of sound pricks at me like tendrils of wind.

The woods are a-thrum with the sound of music. Low, dark notes draw me, not merely because of their beauty, but because I know this music—it is inexplicably familiar.

Like Dr. Cullen's scent.

Sometimes I hum, and Renee always asks what song.

I've never known.

Now, I do.

I know that the song I hum, the song that is part of my subconscious—it is this song. A song that has been an undercurrent through my childhood, the soundtrack to my dreams.

I follow the music deeper into the woods, away from the road, stepping on the path carefully, like I'm off to see the wizard. The chords swell as I begin to see sun shining off glass. Just a few more paces, and I might be able to make out shapes within the bay window…

I step on a twig.

The piano stops abruptly, notes falling off a cliff.

I stop, too.

The woods around me are eerily silent. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. And I feel…something. It's not Edward, not exactly. But it's _like_ Edward. Stronger than Edward, like staring into the sun when you've only ever seen it reflected in the moon. I take a step forward, intent on the human silhouette I can almost see through the shimmery glass…

Reality slaps me in the face.

So this is what it's come to.

I'm standing here, craning to look into someone's private life because they remind me of Edward. Even if it is Edward, even if he's the one whose fingers have enticed me to this place, this is wrong.

In doing this thing, I'm no better than he.

Ashamed, I turn to flee.

Gravel crunches, and a sleek panther of a car wends through the trunks. I can only watch, frozen, as the vehicle purrs to a stop beside me. A dark window slithers down, and the driver leans over.

"Bella! Very nice to see you." Familiar voice, familiar face, familiar smell.

"Hey, Dr. Cullen," I say, peering into the passenger window with a weak wave, as if it's perfectly normal to be found creeping up the driveway to someone's secluded house.

"I'm just getting home. Is there something you need?"

"No, I was just…" Was just _what_? Trespassing on your private property? Following elusive, exquisite music? "I was out for a walk and heard someone playing the piano."

The doctor's eyes flick toward the house. "Yes," he says. "That was probably Esme. She's quite the accomplished pianist."

_Esme_. The lovely, reclusive wife. Dr Cullen just caught me spying on his wife.

"Her playing was lovely." I think I'm going to be sick.

Dr. Cullen appraises me; the engine rumbles. "Won't you come in? Esme would love to meet you."

I shouldn't say yes. They weren't expecting me, he's just getting home, I don't do social engagements, I'm all kinds of sick to my stomach. But there's something in his eyes. There's always something in Dr. Cullen's eyes, like he truly cares about helping people, like he truly cares about _me_. That honest warmth—it's hard to resist. "Alright. Just for a little while."

We step into the foyer of a whole new world, and my discomfort melts away in lieu of awe. Dr. Cullen is talking, but all I can do is _see_. Every design piece—from the spare couches to the burnished accents to the lines and planes are designed to capture the eye just _so_ and lead one's gaze to…

A portrait explodes from the otherwise pristine space, drawing my eye like light into a black hole. Dark lines, bold contrasts, I can't _not_ look at it. The piece looks modern, abstract, and ridiculously expensive. Like the music, like the smell, the piece of art dances at the edge of my subconscious.

"I apologize for the mess," Dr. Cullen says, shutting the front door. "We've just redecorated."

Their house looks impeccable.

"Your home is lovely."

The portrait taunts me from my periphery, seeming to writhe.

"Thank you. My wife has quite the eye." He speaks with a glow reserved for her. "Speaking of which, I don't believe you've met my wife, Esme."

A woman in lavender is sitting at a gleaming white piano—_white!_—on a raised dais in the center of the room. As I follow Dr. Cullen deeper into the living room, thankfully out the portrait's direct gaze, she glides up from the piano bench.

"Hello, Bella," she says, inclining her head with a smile that reminds me of fresh-baked sugar cookies, the quintessential mom smile. Yet something in the way she says my name, with a dash of nostalgia, gives me pause. I don't think this the first time she's said my name.

I hope Dr. Cullen hasn't told her about me, about the night in the woods.

"I really like the song you were playing," I say.

"Why thank you."

"Esme is quite the pianist," Carlisle adds, but his former glow dims. Her sincere smile becomes vague.

I have to ask. "What was the piece?"

Hesitation, the merest of milliseconds. "Chopin's Nocturne in E minor."

For some reason I can't explain, her answer chills me.

"From the movie, _The Secret Garden_," she adds. "Have you seen it?"

Oh.

"Yes. When I was very young." Perhaps that is why it had seemed so familiar.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Esme asks, angling her body away.

"No, thank you. I don't want to impose..."

"Not at all. I would _love_ an excuse to whip up some hot chocolate. With marshmallows?" She sounds so excited, so wistful. Something hot and chocolate does sound good…

"Alright."

Esme delightfully disappears up the stairs, which apparently lead to the kitchen.

"How are things, Bella?" Carlisle asks, settling us down onto the couches.

"Good. Really good, actually. I've been accepted at Dartmouth." It's the first time I've told someone other than my parents. It feels weird to say the word. Like it's actually a real place. Like I'm actually going there.

"Oh? Your folks must be very proud. Your father is always telling me what a sharp kid you are."

Bet he's not telling people that any more.

We make small talk until Esme descends the stairs, a tray of steaming beverages balanced neatly in her arms. It's small talk, but it doesn't really feel like it. I've spent enough time at his hospital, and he seems to remember my answers to every single question he's ever asked me. And Esme is every bit as open and engaging as he is. Nothing like her reputation.

Before I know it, my mug is empty, and I know that's my cue. I shouldn't take advantage of their hospitality any longer. I tell them that I have to get going or else my parents might worry. They nod, understanding, and we exchange parting pleasantries.

On the porch, I hesitate. Since I'm here, there is one more thing I have to say. I'm leaving soon; I might not get another chance.

"Dr. Cullen?"

"Carlisle," he says firmly.

I nod but don't say it back. Too weird.

"Thanks," I say, "for finding me. That night in the woods." It's _thank you_ and _goodbye_ rolled into one.

His eyes slide slightly to my left, no longer firmly on my face. "You are very welcome. I'm glad that you've recovered from the whole ordeal."

We both know he is talking about more than that night in the woods.

"Goodbye, Bella," Esme says, her hand reaching for my cheek but stopping just short.

They stand on the porch, arms around each other, as I walk away, humming the melody of a secret song.

* * *

Two weeks, and I'm off to a new life in New Hampshire.

Renee becomes clingy, as if she'd just gotten used to having her baby girl within arm's reach and doesn't want to let go. She sits cross-legged on the end of my bed and tells me all about her two semesters of college. Her biggest regret is dropping out.

She jokes about moving to New Hampshire.

She doesn't say a word about Phoenix.

Charlie begins to cut back his hours at the station, begins to hover in the kitchen while I'm making dinner. He watches fewer sports and drinks less beer. As a family, we watch movies we haven't seen in years. We play cards. We plan my class schedule, debating the merits of 12 versus 16 hours. They seem proud of me, so genuinely proud of me for the first time in years, that I can't tell them one crucial piece of information.

One itsy bitsy spider of a detail.

See, I'd applied to a lot of colleges in this great country of ours. Big ones, small ones, cheap ones, fancy ones, and all ones in between.

But, um.

I hadn't applied to Dartmouth.


	12. The portrait

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

I hadn't applied to Dartmouth, but to Dartmouth I go. A small college located in the small town of Hanover in the small state of New Hampshire. New Hampshire is more than three thousand miles from Forks.

It's perfect.

I will finally be free. Free from Forks, from fantasies, from phantom freaks.

A mere three days before an airplane will transport me three thousand miles from the town in which I've spent my life, I finally find a group of three upperclasswomen who are willing to rent an empty room to a freshman. Middle of the school year at Dartmouth, it's a bit difficult to find housing, especially as a freshman. Especially as an underage freshman. The understanding is that the freshman in question is willing to cook and clean more than her fair share. More precisely, everyone's fair share.

This freshman is more than willing.

I can cook and clean in my sleep.

I didn't tell Renee that I was having trouble finding housing in Hanover. I didn't tell her that the dorms are full and that the student housing near campus is booked a year in advance. I certainly didn't tell her that I found this particular rent house on Craig's List.

Renee keeps dropping hints about coming and helping me get settled. But I assure her that I will be fine, that my room is already furnished, that she should take this opportunity to get out of Forks (again) and get on with her life. She finally agrees not to tag along to Hanover if I will just promise her one thing.

I promise.

I promise to find the city's best doctor within three days of touching down on New Hampshire soil. I promise to give her the name, office phone, cell phone, and home address of said person within the week. I promise her all this and don't even comment that her one thing is multiplying like bunnies.

On our drive to the airport, Renee goes over the things I've promised, again and again. As we drive, my head is turned toward her and my eyes are on her face, but I'm not listening to the words coming out of her mouth. I'm too busy wondering what is going to happen in the next few hours.

And I don't mean that I'm wondering how smooth my flight will be or what I will think of my roommates when I meet them. I'm not wondering how I'll feel being off on my own.

No, I'm wondering about Edward.

More specifically, I wonder what Edward is going to do now that I'm leaving Forks. I wonder what Edward thinks about all of this, if he cares that I'm leaving him forever. I wonder if Edward will stay in Forks.

And I wonder what I will do if he does.

Charlie keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror, as though there's something he would like to say if he could.

Renee chatters on.

As Charlie pulls into an unloading spot at the airport terminal, I step out of the car and receive my first clue as to what Edward might do. For, as I raise my face to the rain, I can't feel him. He's not watching me as I struggle to get the smaller of my two suitcases out of the back of the car. He's not watching Charlie hold our hug a little too long, a little too tight. Or as I print my boarding pass and stand in my socks waiting to go through security. Or as I look back, one last time, to wave my parents goodbye.

He doesn't see the single tear that slips through my defenses before I square my shoulders and march to my gate.

Edward is also not on the plane. I should be relieved. I'm one step closer to freedom, one step closer to escaping the nightmare of my adolescence. Instead, I'm strangely uneasy. In all past situations in my life in which I've been at risk of potential mortal danger, I've always drawn comfort from the fact that Edward will be there to save me.

I spend the flight thinking about what would happen if one or both of the pilots has a heart attack. If an engine fails. If the plane is struck by lightning. If an albatross flies into the propellers. If the landing gear does not deploy properly. If air traffic control gets their wires crossed.

I've heard Superman say that airplanes are statistically the safest way to fly. But without Edward, I don't feel safe. I don't feel safe until the plane is safely docked at its gate and I have safely traversed a rickety, smelly tunnel and stepped onto the solid concrete of the Lebanon Municipal Airport. I don't feel safe until the taxi deposits me safely in front of a cute white bungalow with green shutters.

It's hard not to feel safe in front of a cute white bungalow with green shutters.

A pretty girl with shiny brown hair and side-swept bangs answers the door.

"You must be Bella," she says, and I nod. She doesn't look like the type of person to have lured me to her house for the express purpose of killing me slowly.

Her name's Kate, and she waves me in to begin the grand tour. Of my three roommates—Kate, Jen, and Rosalie—the latter was the last one I would have guessed I would ever be friends with. From the scathing look that Rosalie gives me when we are introduced, I think she agrees. Then again, the look could have been because Kate barged into her room without knocking.

Kate shows me to my room, apologizing that it's so small and doesn't have its own bathroom. I take in the patchwork quilt tucked neatly over the queen-sized bed, window seat shaded by a birch tree in the back yard, a gold-gilded, floor-length mirror.

It's perfect.

They don't have houses like this in Forks.

"The mirror's a bit much, I know," Kate says, "but the previous owner left it here, and it was too heavy for us to move."

When she leaves me to get settled in, I throw a white sheet over the mirror. Kate was right; it's disconcerting, causing unexpected light and movement.

As I begin unpacking my meager belongings, I know I've made the right decision. In leaving Forks. In coming here. Each bit of Bella that I pull out and set up anchors me more firmly to this place, my new home.

* * *

When someone knocks on my door later that evening, I know it probably isn't Kate. But I certainly don't expect to see Rosalie. She sticks in her beautiful blonde head and focuses her beautiful winter eyes on me. And oh look, she even has a beautiful little beauty mark above her lip.

"Can I come in?" she says.

"Sure."

I'm stretched out, fully clothed, on my fully made bed, listening to instrumental music on my iPod while I write in the little blue notebook I purchased for a new life in Hanover. Blue is the complete opposite of red. As Rosalie enters, I tuck the notebook under my pillow and dislodge my ear buds. She steps into the room like she owns the place (maybe she does) and inspects my knick-knacks.

She smiles when she sees what I've done with the mirror.

When her gaze at last settles on me, I see approval. For a second, I think she's going to sit on the corner of my bed, but she instead opts to lean against the dresser.

We do the whole who, what, where thing. I learn that she's from Oregon, she's a junior, and that—surprisingly enough—she's an English major like me. Talking to her is easier than I would have imagined given her tough-as-titanium exterior. Had she not initiated this conversation, I'm sure that it would have taken me months to approach her.

We're talking about the best places to get food around campus when Rosalie asks, "So who was he?"

I'm lost. "What?"

"The guy who hurt you," she says.

When I continue to stare at her in disbelief, she exhales a laugh and looks out the window.

"Sorry, I'm kinda an expert on the subject. Your face, your voice, even the way you dress all scream 'rejection' to me."

Should I take that as a compliment?

In Forks, this is the point at which I would have lied, the point at which I would have denied that there's a _him_. Like I had denied him to Jacob. To Alice.

"Ed…Edward," I stumble. "His name was Edward." I'm proud of myself for saying his name. I'm proud of myself for using the past tense. It feels cathartic, like I'm rinsing him away.

Rosalie focuses her steel gaze back on me.

"Mine was Emmett." She picks up one of my grizzly bear figurines from the dresser, the largest in a set of three sold at Forks Antiques. "We were high school sweethearts. He was larger than life, caring, protective, and loyal to a fault." She puts down the grizzly bear and tips it on its side with one finger. "Turns out, though, he was more loyal to football than to me. We were supposed to go off to college together, but he got a full ride to a PAC 10 school."

We are quiet for a moment.

Then she asks, "What about your Edward?"

Again, I want to lie. I want to tell her that he cheated on me with another girl. I want to make him sound inconsequential.

But I say, "We grew up together. He was my puppy dog crush. But he never wanted me."

"Hm," she says, frowning slightly. "That's not what I would have guessed."

My interest is piqued. "What would you have guessed?"

She looks at me for a second like she's trying to figure me out. "I would have guessed a whirlwind Romeo and Juliet love story. Lies and love lost."

How I wish.

In my case, it would have been better to have loved and lost than to have loved at all. It would be nice to know for certain that I had someone to lose.

Rosalie pushes away from the dresser, her slippers flapping against the hardwood floor. As she grabs the door handle, she looks over at me and says, "A piece of advice, Swan." I look back up at her face, wondering if she has something to say about Edward. "Avoid Dr. Jones for Freshman English. He's killer hard and is stingy with the A's."

As she steps through the door, she looks at me a final time. "And if you need anything, just let me know."

Just like that, I know that I have made my first friend here. The moment she leaves, I pull out my laptop and register for Dr. Jones' Freshman English class.

Later, when Rosalie discovers my English professor, she barks a laugh.

"You were a nerd in high school, weren't you?" she asks.

"You were prom queen in high school, weren't you?" I counter.

We smile at each other.

The unanticipated confidence of having the likes of Rosalie Hale for a friend allows me to fulfill the rest of my promises to Renee more quickly than expected. I interview for a student job on campus and am accepted on the spot. I'll start Monday, the first day of school. I find a respectable doctor and send his 411 to Renee.

I have all my ducks in a row, so to speak. Rubber ducks of the school, house, friends, and job variety. My new life is coming together. This Swan is finally spreading her wings to fly.

Renee has said that to me a thousand times.

This is the first time I feel it's true.

* * *

College is anti-climactic. I assimilate into the new lifestyle effortlessly. From Renee's experience, I know exactly what _not_ to do. I also keep my promise to Charlie. I don't smoke or drink or snort anything. Ever. Instead, I spend my time doing exactly what you're expected to do in college—learn.

I minor in Psychology (go figure) and learn all kinds of things. Fancy terms like _disassociation_ and _insiders_ and _pathology_. I read meticulously documented case studies of adults and teenagers with experiences similar to mine. Some of them were also diagnosed with schizophrenia. Some with dissociative identity disorder. Some, however, were regarded as normal, their imaginary friends something that they would grow out of as they became adults.

And they did.

After much reading, much essay writing, much introspection, I at last come to the only logical conclusion.

I've read about a man who could not sleep without a blanket his grandmother had made him. Thirty-two years old, and he still slept with a security blanket over his face.

I think back to when I was six and couldn't sleep without Mr. Bear tucked under my arm. When he'd fall onto to the floor during the night, I'd awake clutching and screaming. Yet now, so many years later, I look back on little Bella and can't remember what it was like to _feel_ that way. Mr. Bear hadn't even come to college with me.

Neither had Edward. Like Mr. Bear, I'd left him in Forks. He is merely a phase of my childhood that I carried a little too far into my adolescence, a minor glitch in the timeline of my life. Years from now, I'll look back and laugh about the idea that I ever thought some invisible angel was _watching_ me.

I no longer have to try to not think of Edward. I just don't. Days bleed effortlessly into weeks, then months. Forks becomes nothing more than a half-remembered bad dream.

And I'm happy.

I think.

* * *

I think this up until I take Art Appreciation, an "easy" elective.

I know enough about psychology now to understand that, subconsciously, I chose that class because of Alice. Because Alice would have approved. Maybe it would give us something to talk about if we ever…

Yeah.

Would that I had _not_ listened to my subconscious.

Art Appreciation is a misnomer.

I can tell from the first session that this class that I thought was going to be easy is going to be anything but. The instructor is a high-energy guy with a ponytail and active hands that paint the air for emphasis as he talks.

I freeze when he starts dragging out canvases and easels. Maybe I'm in the wrong class.

He tells us that, "You can't truly appreciate art until you've tried your hand at it."

Apparently, only after you grasp how difficult it is to daub paint on a blank canvas can you understand why the guy who managed to pull more than ten colors together to form a starry sky was a genius.

As expected, I'm about as good at appreciating art as I am at yoga.

I suffer through weeks of drawing human faces and landscapes and still life bowls of apples. Only after we try (and fail) to create our own masterpieces does the instructor finally allow us to appreciate art. We watch slide shows of famous paintings. We look at glossy textbooks full of more. The instructor even brings in some of his own work for us to critique. (At which point, I understand why he makes a living _teaching_ art.)

Then, he sends us out into the world to appreciate art on our own. The assignment: find a painting at a local museum and "commune with it" for at least one hour. More, if the spirit so moves us.

Longest hour of my life.

In the school's museum of art, I approach a large painting with enough visual interest to keep me occupied during the terms of the assignment. Somehow, it reminds me of Forks. It looks modern, abstract, and ridiculously expensive.

Strange, then, that it should remind me of Forks.

I sit on a bench artfully positioned in front of the painting.

And sit and sit and sit.

As I sit, I look at that painting. I try to unravel the insanity of movement, try to trace tendrils of paint as though extricating myself from a maze. But no matter what I do, I never see anything but splatter.

Until, of course, I see something else.

After fifty-three minutes of staring at the same square, my eyes are starting to cross, my vision is getting hazy. Blink, and my focus goes soft, blurring at the edges.

In that moment, this abstract painting, the same one that I have been diligently staring at for nearly fifty-four excruciating minutes—the painting is suddenly, diametrically, impossibly…something else.

The painting is not of a rat's nest of dark lines and insanity.

The painting is of a woman's face. There, the eyes. There, the hair. Nose, chin. There, a woman's face hidden in the chaos.

My own face is like: !.?.!.?

Did I fall asleep?

Is this real life?

Blink, and the painting is nothing but a painting. Blink again, and it's a woman.

I stand from the bench like an arrow shot from a bow.

Back in my room, Google informs me that the artist goes by D. Nali. Not to be confused with Salvador Dali, although the names almost rhyme. D. Nali is from India, from what I understand, one of the few creative talents from that hemisphere to make it big in the States. He includes an Easter egg in each of his paintings. It's his claim to fame, his trademark, his genius.

A fact that my Art Appreciation professor may have failed to mention.

I suppose details like this are best discovered on one's own.

Seven more minutes, and I would have wandered away and written a well-formulated essay about the unusual contrast and flow and balance of D. Nali's work.

Seven more minutes, and I would have failed the assignment.

Sometimes, the hidden image is nothing more than a flower, an animal, a tree. But most often, it's a human face. I look at page after page of Google images of D. Nali's work. Shift my focus just right, and I see women, men, children, families.

Then I realize why his work seems so familiar, why it reminds me of home. I've seen this type of painting before. Before Dartmouth, before this class, before the museum. Carlisle and Esme Cullen have a D. Nali painting hanging from their mantel.

At first, it doesn't click.

The Cullens are rich, after all; they may have discovered D. Nali several years ago, before he was too famous to be above painting family portraits.

Then it clicks.

The epiphany makes my blood run cold, makes the flesh on my arms rise, makes my heart flop like a suffocating fish. My thoughts flow as follows:

1) The Cullens have a D. Nali painting in their house.

2) The painting is a family portrait.

3) And their portrait—it has three faces.


	13. Stop

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

When Carlisle and Esme Cullen moved to Forks my freshman year, the local rumor mill reacted about as you might expect—like a rare steak had been thrown into a shark pit. The official headline was that the rich, handsome doctor decided to forgo a life of success and luxury because his wife preferred to live in a small town.

The Forks rumor mill didn't buy it.

In typical fashion, the town's career gossip mongers churned out a record number of hypotheses that would better explain this anomaly. Theories ranged from scandal in the big city (involving Carlisle's devilishly good looks and one too many indiscretions in the on call room with his nurses) to Esme being slightly touched in the head (which would explain her customarily dreamy expression and outlandish decorating).

Forks talked about the Cullen's fancy clothes, their fancy cars, the fancy house that they had custom-built on the outskirts of town. Contractors from Seattle, of course; local builders were not up to snuff.

But the piece of gossip I remember most was that the Cullens couldn't or didn't have children (no one was sure which). I remember thinking about this fact every time I interacted with Carlisle, with his gentle face and even gentler hands.

He would have made an excellent father.

Esme, an excellent mother.

Maybe, just maybe, they are.

* * *

I stand at a fork in the road.

To my left is the path to normalcy, recovery, and a potentially long, productive life.

I already have one foot firmly planted down this path. I've left Forks, uprooted myself from the fiendish forest with its strangling web of branches and roots and lies, and have begun a new life on the opposite coast, where they have cute bungalows with green shutters and surprisingly chill supermodels like Rosalie and...tulips. The Dartmouth campus bursts with them.

This eureka moment I'm having is probably nothing more than residual delusion, a final hurrah from my brain trying to hold onto the comforts of my past. A rush of endorphins and adrenaline caused by an overzealous Art Appreciation assignment. I've read the research. I know that giving up an imaginary friend is not an instantaneous thing, not a twitch your nose twice and poof, he's gone type of deal.

Ingrained patterns of thought require time to heal, time for the neural pathways to realign and readjust to a new reality. A healthier reality. A _real_ reality.

Focus on facts. Focus on what's real.

Back in Forks, the Cullens have a D. Nali painting with three face-like blobs on it. I remember noting this detail because, as Alice once told me, odd numbers of items create asymmetry, which is more visually dynamic than layouts that are perfectly symmetrical.

Beyond the fact that the painting exists lies mere conjecture.

The third blob could be any number of things. One of the Cullens' last living parents, perhaps. Or a great-aunt who was wealthy enough to commission a budding artist from India.

Or maybe a dog.

Yes, likely a dog. One of the expensive breeds that rich people favor, like a female teacup Yorkie or a Portuguese waterdog or an English bulldog. Something foreign. The Cullens seem like dog people, don't they? I can just see Dr. Cullen taking his impeccably groomed Irish setter for a romp in the forest. I can just see the slobbery, hairy animal tracking twigs and dirt all through Esme's impeccable house…

No.

I can't see this.

The Cullens don't seem like dog people at all. Something about their eyes. Cat people, maybe. Their eyes are eerily feline…

Focus.

To my left, normal.

But to my right is the sign for Crazyville.

To my right lies uncertainty, social leprosy, and a potentially bleak future, me sitting in a rocking chair in a house overgrown with brambles, without even a child to help ease my passage into the beyond.

Can I really trust my own brain?

I lie so well I regularly fool others. Could I fool myself?

Could I have sat for fifty-three minutes in front of an abstract painting and grown so bored that my brain decided to make things interesting? Could my brain have fabricated an elaborate story about a fictitious artist who somehow magically layers a second image behind his primary one, using just the right tricks of perception, depth, and light? Could I have then come back to my house and "read" all about it on Google?

Yes.

_Absolutely _yes.

The human brain is capable of almost anything. From my studies, I've learned that much. And if your brain has decided not to play nice, well. It's not pretty. You're kinda at its mercy.

Left: Rational, safe, mundane.

Right: Supernatural, risky, insane.

In this moment, it's like I never left Forks. My new life in Hanover fades; all the progress and promises I've made, all the lies I've told, all the progress…none of it matters. I've spent the last year trying to put my life back together. In a single day, I can feel it all falling apart around my ears.

I want Mr. Bear.

Left: Dr. K, Renee, and Charlie.

Right: Gran, Edward, and…Alice.

Focus on Alice.

What would Alice do? If Alice were here, right now, what advice would she give me? She, who has always danced to the beat of a drummer only she can hear. I know exactly what Alice would do. Alice defies normal. Alice is the most spontaneous, bubbly, and giving person that I know. The person I want to be like when I grow up. Even though I'm two months older than she.

Yet Alice is also the same person who was carted off to Italy and force-fed pills. The one who has to sneak out to go visit her best friend in tree houses. Who chiefs of police suspect is illegally spreading medicinal love.

Do I really want to end up like Alice?

In that moment, that exact moment, my phone buzzes.

I look down to where it's sitting, right next to my mouse. Right next to my hand. A few more seconds, and it will buzz right off the table, down into the trash. Let it go. Let it fall into the abyss, where it belongs.

Three…two…one…

I reach out and snatch it back from the ledge like a cat paws a mouse.

Look down at the screen, and I see two little words.

One, two.

_It's time_.

I suppose I don't even have to tell you.

The text is from Alice.

Impossible. Improbable. Serendipitous.

I have not spoken or texted with Alice in more than 365 days. Yet I hear from her today. This exact moment. Those exact words.

Here I sit, thinking about a portrait of blobs and smears and I know—_I_ _know I know I know_—that my mind has not concocted some fiendish plan to overthrow my sanity. That D. Nali is real. That the third blob in the Cullen family portrait is not an elderly parent. Not a great aunt. Not an animal of any kind.

I know it.

I _believe_ it.

In my mind, I can only see the Cullens' painting as I remember it. I can't unfocus my eyes just right and see what lies beneath.

But my heart knows.

My heart knows that Esme hadn't been playing the piano that day. Esme's fingers weren't the ones that were coaxing that music—_my music_—from the keys of that baby grand.

The song had not been Chopin's _Nocturne in E minor_.

Close, similarly morose, but not the same.

If Esme had truly been playing, she would have known which song.

As always, Alice is right.

It _is_ time.

Time for me to stop ignoring the signs that I'm not crazy. Time for me to believe, once and for all, that I have not merely made up Edward to help me cope with the traumas of my childhood. Time for me to take matters into my own hands.

Literally.

Push calmly away from my computer. Walk carefully out of my room, past the dark, gaping doorways of my roommates, who are at class, at work. I'm alone. No parents, no friends, no Jake.

I grab a glass of water from the kitchen. As I drink with my left hand, I ease open a drawer near the sink with the other. There, lying in a nest of cutlery, is my last-ditch attempt to show Edward that I mean business.

My other attempts have failed. But this time, I will not fail. I will not fail because I'm committed. I'm not giving myself an out. I'm not bringing Jake along in case Edward decides to let me drown or catapult myself into a rock. I'm taking a true leap of faith.

No safety net.

Discovery or death.

The house is steeped in silence, a heavy, omnipresent silence. No mice scurry in the hidden spaces between the walls. No birds chirp in the tree outside my window. The neighbor's dog is unusually calm, the other neighbor's cats playing nice for once.

In the silence of my room, behind a closed and firmly locked door, I move to stand in front of the sheet that covers my mirror like a shroud. Yank, and it crumples to the floor in a whip-snap of faerie dust.

I look at my reflection, and what do I see? A plain Jane of a girl—average height, average weight, the most common hair color, the most common eye color, and regular size 7 feet.

Yet this normal girl, she's about to do something extraordinary.

Near my thigh, something dangerous winks.

Fascinated, I rotate my left wrist, watching the play of light on metal. It's mesmerizing. Focus on how pretty it is; don't focus on what it's about to do.

With a crook of the elbow, I press the tip of a butcher's knife to the delicate skin on the inside of my left wrist.

The metal is cool.

"So," I say.

"This is it," I say.

"I'm going to start cutting now," I say.

I say these things to my reflection.

My room is still, silent, not even the slightest breeze through the curtains.

I wait for a second until it's clear that my reflection doesn't care. Then I grip that lovely, deadly knife until my knuckles go white. With a hiss, I dig the tip of the blade into my wrist just hard enough to draw the first pinprick of rose red blood.

I look carefully away, focusing instead on the feeling of fire on my flesh. I take a deep, shaky breath, steeling myself in preparation for a quick, forceful thrust. One slice—that's all it will take. One slice and this will all be over, one way or another.

Discovery or death.

Just as my fingers grip the knife hilt more firmly in preparation for that one, final slice, I hear a voice.

And this voice, it says, "Stop."


	14. The moment

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

You know how this story ends.

You've seen the _Wizard of Oz_. You've seen _The_ _Matrix _trilogy. Heck, you may have even seen _Men Who Stare at Goats_.

Lots of build-up, lots of anticipation, and then…

Lots of scratching of head.

If my life was a movie, this is the Big Reveal. The once-in-a-lifetime, bright-light-falling, heavy-door-creaking-open moment where something you've believed in, something you've fought for, something you've almost died for—that something is about to be revealed once and for all.

More often than not, mystery is exposed as mundane—a white-bearded Architect in a room full of monitors, a Blue Fairy statue in a crumbling amusement park, a harried man behind a green curtain, men who really and truly just sit and stare at goats.

No magic. No miracle. No dazzle.

Every sign points to me having your classic _Wizard of Oz_ ending. Every authority figure, every textbook, every research study, every shred of common sense. I've told myself that Edward's existence is an impossibility, convinced myself of it, stuffing my previous blind faith into some forgotten crack so deep in my psyche until my brain is awash with lie. I've patted myself on the back for having gotten over my little glitch, for having grown up, matured, for stepping across the threshold of childhood at last.

And yet.

The thing about blind faith is that it persists. It doesn't need to see with its own eyes, hear with its own ears, taste with its own tongue—it can burrow deaf and dumb and mute in the darkest of dark corners and _believe_.

For every _Wizard of Oz_ ending, there is _The Sixth Sense_. _The Prestige_. _The Others_. A whole host of movies starting with the word "The" whose endings you don't quite see coming.

Movies in which—sometimes—the magic is real.

And the thing is, I _want_ to believe.

I want to believe in magic.

I want to believe in Edward.

I want to believe in him like you want to believe in luminous unicorns in shaded, secret meadows and wizards who can grant our heart's desire and the goodness in every living soul.

Even if believing takes me two strides past the wrong side of crazy.

This is my moment—the moment that will send all other moments crashing down, the first domino in my life's chain. Blind faith breaks free, a sliver of sun knifing through the tempest at last.

* * *

_Stop_.

A voice just told me to stop.

This voice isn't in my head. I'm not dreaming. It's a rough yet smooth voice from somewhere behind my right ear.

It sounds young.

It sounds male.

It sounds like the greatest sound I have ever heard in my life.

At the sound of this voice, I drop the butcher's knife. It slides from my fingers and clatters to the wood floor, cling clang. I don't turn. I stare at myself in the mirror. According to the mirror, there is no one standing behind me. No one whose lips could have produced that voice. The house is quiet, my door locked, iPod off, cell phone dark.

But I know, beyond the merest whisper of a doubt, that someone is here.

I _know_.

That same presence, the presence I've felt all my life, is standing just over my right shoulder, almost breathing down my neck, down my spine, all the way down to the tips of my toes. I would know that presence anywhere. My neck hairs prickle toward him like miniature water sticks toward a well.

In the mirror, blood paints new veins on the flesh of my hand to mirror the ones within.

"I stopped," I say.

"Your move," I say.

_Drip_, goes my blood.

For an interminable moment, all is silent. All is calm. In that moment, another drop of blood collects, coalesces, grows heavy and ripe on the tip of my pinkie…

The owner of the voice moves.

A finger darts into my line of vision.

As far as fingers go, this one is nice. No blackened, splintered nail. No blue-tinged death. No bleach-boned skeleton.

The nail is even neat, with a crescent of white.

Just a normal finger.

Except, of course, for the fact that it doesn't reflect in a mirror.

The finger rotates, belly-up, right below the drip of my blood. Succulent, blood-fruit plummets and bursts against pale skin—violence against purity.

I stare at that finger.

Stare and stare.

The finger is connected to a well-proportioned hand that somehow projects the strength of manual labor and the sensitivity of a scholar. It's strong, it's soft, it's both.

Another set of fingers appear, wrapping around my wrist, pulling my wounded arm up, above my heart. The fingers tremble, even from where they grip my wrist so hard that they'll leave whitened imprints.

I don't care if the fingers grip me so hard I bruise. In fact, I welcome it. Anything to leave a trace of their passing. To prove that I haven't imagined them after all. To prove, once and for all, that their owner is real.

The person behind me steps even closer, until his presence ignites the skin of my back, my neck, my ears. Curiously, despite his nearness, I feel no heat. The bloodied finger retreats, travelling through the air to a point somewhere behind my head.

I swivel to follow that finger, and he's twirling me slowly, like a dancer.

I don't dance, but he's making me.

Follow the finger until it disappears between a pair of lips. These lips look soft. They look warm. They look inviting. Focus on these lips for a while as the finger slides first in, then out of those lips. Watch the tip of the finger emerge, cleansed of blood. The finger falls from my view, but this time, don't follow its passage. Fixate on those lips.

I've waited years to see this face. I will not rush the process.

I recognize the individual features—their shape, proportion, contrast—but I've seen his face as only blunt pencil on paper, like a dark ruby on the floor. Now, it's held to the sun at last—scintillating, alive, dazzling.

Young, yet timeless.

Of this world, yet ethereal.

Wrong, somehow, yet so very right.

It is _the_ face.

The physical embodiment of the sketch Alice gave me, so long ago. His eyes are even closed as if savoring some sensation, no clue as to their hue. Yet, despite her skill, Alice's sketch did not do him justice.

No sketch could ever do _this_ justice.

Then his eyelids open, and I'm looking into his irises. Their color is a dash of water to the face.

For they are not blue.

Not gray.

Not green.

They are the color of a golden, twilit sky. Candied apples. Amber waves of grain. Any number of other honey-hued metaphors. More importantly, they are the exact shade shared by Carlisle and Esme Cullen.

His dark pupils dilate as he focuses on my face—solemnity, intensity, and something else. Fear?

We stand looking at each other.

At this point, there is only one thing I can do. I draw back my uninjured hand and slap with all my strength.

Right across a chiseled cheek.

.

.

.

Part of me expects my hand to pass through his face in a swirl of mist and vapor. Part of me expects to connect with warm, soft flesh, to watch his head snap sideways with the force of my blow.

Both parts of me are wrong.

My hand connects with stone, with steel, with cement. It connects with all of the above hard enough to shatter at least three small bones.

For a second, we blink at each other, he in surprise that I've just hit him, and me in surprise that my hand has fractured into a million pieces as a result.

His lips breathe, "Isabella."

At the same time, my lips go, "Urggghph."

"Isabella," he continues, when it becomes clear I'm not coherent enough to form any other words, "please stop hurting yourself."

Please, he says. He just said _please_.

I'd said that a lot. In my room. In a forest. He hadn't responded. Why should I respond to him now?

I wind my arm up in preparation for another forceful slap, broken bones notwithstanding. If nothing else, I should build a tangible case that he is here. I'm afraid he will disappear.

Before I can execute yet another resounding gesture, he catches my other wrist in his fingers. We stand, facing each other, my arms bent and extended, his fingers encircling my wrists like handcuffs.

Very appropriate.

I'm a prisoner. _His_ prisoner.

I've been a prisoner to him my entire life.

"Isabella," he says again, and I want to tell him that it's just Bella. But I can't speak. Besides, he knows my name. He knows everything about me.

"Let's get you to a doctor," he says.

I shake my head (which means no), but he ignores me. Instead, he swings me into his arms as though I weigh nothing.

He's carrying me.

The supposed figment of my imagination is _carrying_ me.

His arms cradle my back and my knees. My left side presses firmly against his firm torso. When I lower my head, my cheek finds smooth, cold neck. Where our bodies touch, we are hot and cold, fire and ice, burn and freeze. Whatever he is, he's not normal. That much I can tell.

In two steps, we stride past the mirror and out the door. I only catch a glimpse, but a slice of mirror shows me floating on air.

He is carrying me, and now he is putting me into a car.

A car.

He has a _car_.

As far as cars go, this one seems nice enough. He lowers me gently into the passenger's seat and my eyes run slip-shod over silver that slides from view. I settle gingerly into black leather, cold and stiff with disuse. I wonder if anyone has ever ridden here before.

I stare straight ahead as he draws the seatbelt carefully across my body. I stare straight ahead as the seatbelt snicks closed. I stare straight ahead as he rounds the silver nose of the car and slides into the driver's seat.

I keep on staring straight ahead as his eyes appraise me.

"You're shutting down," he says.

"Don't," I snap.

"Don't what?"

"Don't act like you know me."

"But I _do_ know you," he says softly.

"You don't know anything."

"I know you," he repeats.

"You don't know anything about me." My voice bristles like a porcupine with venom-tipped quills. My voice _dares_ him to contradict me.

He doesn't.

He knows that much.

We drive the rest of the way to the hospital in silence.

He knows enough about me not to try to put any music on. Although he does briefly eye the ridiculous array of CDs arranged artfully in every available space in the dashboard.

He has a car.

He listens to music.

He lives.

I'm _not_ crazy.

But I'm starting to get crazy angry.

The smell isn't helping. The smell—that familiar, wonderful sunshine smell—of him in his car is driving me insane. If I'm not already.

He drives me to a hospital and parks next to a sleek panther of a car. This time, I don't let him unbuckle my seat belt or open my car door or close it behind me. Although he hovers, I do these things myself—despite the shooting pains in both hands—and march myself to the waiting room. He follows just behind me, out of sight, as always.

But this time, if I listen hard enough, I can hear his footfalls.

"Excuse me," I say, and a white-starched nurse looks up from paperwork.

"Yes." She's so bored, the word isn't a question.

I point to the person standing next to me. "Can you see him?"

"She means," he leans in immediately, edging me away from the counter, "that we have an appointment on the third floor. He's expecting us."

The nurse eyes a chart, picks up a phone. "Right. Go on up."

The non-figment of my imagination leads the way, and I can't help but look at him now that his back is turned. He's dressed simply in a t-shirt and jeans, dark blue trending toward black. These clothes are simple. They are nondescript. They are perfect for sneaking and stalking. I watch the careful swing of his arms, the hunched shoulders, the measured, tentative strides of someone for whom stealth is a way of life.

Everything about him screams psycho stalker.

Everything, of course, except his face.

We enter an oversized elevator and hug opposite walls, facing forward, our expressions identically neutral and sombre. Musak serenades us cheerfully.

The elevator dings, and I follow him to an office door identical to the others down the deserted hallway. I glance once at the burnished gold plaque.

Then double-take.

The office belongs to one _Dr. Carlisle Cullen, M.D_. The name pierces me with thorns. I feel shocked, betrayed, stupid, like everyone I know is in on this little secret but me. What is Dr. Cullen doing in New Hampshire?

Turn the handle to find out.

There, behind an expansive desk, sits Dr. Cullen.

"Carlisle," I say, emphasizing his name. Emphasizing the gesture of respect, familiarity, _trust_.

His golden eyes widen, although he doesn't seem surprised to see me.

"Hello, Bella," he says. His eyes dance from my face to one behind me. He finally settles on the face behind me.

"Come in, Edward," Carlisle says, "and close the door behind you."

Edward.

Yes, Virginia, there really _is_ an Edward.

Edward exists.

Edward really has been watching me my whole life.

I collapse shakily into a visitor's chair. Edward slinks in and sits on the edge of Dr. Cullen's desk, the edge farthest away from me. We don't look at each other. We look at Dr. Cullen instead.

He asks, "How can I help you?"

"Isabella's hands need medical attention," Edward says curtly, not quite meeting Carlisle's eyes.

"What happened?" Dr. Cullen asks me neutrally, holding out his hands for mine.

"Oh, I tried to kill myself," I say. "And then I tried to kill Edward."

Dr. Cullen's face remains the perfect mix of polite and professional. He doesn't even glance at Edward. "I take it the left wrist is the kill yourself, and the right is the kill Edward."

Edward and I both nod. Edward looks vaguely out the window. I see his head's motion out of the corner of my eye. I refuse to look at him directly. Even though I desperately, desperately want to.

"Edward, can you bring some gauze, tape, and a sling?"

Blink and Edward is gone, the office door drifting shut behind him like paper settling after wind.

Dr. Cullen looks at me earnestly for a moment. "Bella," he says, and I expect him to lecture me about the dangers of attempted suicide or attempted murder. Particularly of someone with flesh as freakishly impenetrable as Edward's.

"Bella," he says again, "I just want you to know that I'm on your side. I did not agree with Edward's choice."

Before I can say anything, before I can even ask him _what choice_ or why he's here, Edward pushes into the office, arms laden with the medical supplies Carlisle had requested, and then some. He strides forward and deposits his motley load forcefully across the gleaming cherrywood desk.

He's scowling.

At Dr. Cullen, not me.

As the doctor begins tending my injured hands, Edward adds pacing to his scowl. Carlisle ignores him, working diligently to bandage my bloody hand ("No stitches needed") and brace my fractured one ("Nothing a few weeks won't heal").

The clock on the wall informs us that time passes.

When the last bandage sticks and the last gauze tucks, Dr. Cullen begins, "Don't you think that—"

"Thank you for your assistance. We'll be going, then," Edward says, standing and striding, looking imploringly at my feet. As though he wants them to follow.

I'm suddenly resistant to leave this office, the buffer that is Carlisle. He's known, familiar, Forks.

"We'll talk soon, Bella," the good doctor assures me, his nod a prod.

I shouldn't trust him—he's lied to me by omission—but I do. I stand and let Edward herd me out the door. I step out into the unknown. Look back, and dark wood closes on Dr. Cullen's pained expression, honey eyes that drip sadness.

Then Edward and I stall awkwardly in a sterile hallway. It's his turn to look anywhere but at me. He squirms under the unblink of my gaze. Now that I've started looking at him, I can't stop.

"So," he says. "We need to talk."


	15. Seventeen

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

Talk, he says.

Edward wants to talk.

As though our situation can be categorized by mere words. As if he can explain the inexplicable. As if there's anything he can say, anything at all, that will prevent me from telling him to cross the river to Hades.

But.

What if there is?

If there is, I want to hear those words. I'll listen to the combination of consonants and vowels combined into syllables, words, phrases, sentences that attempt to explain the ten-car pile-up he's made of my life. He'll say them and I'll listen and then I'll tell him that those words he just said? They do not matter. They are nothing but drops of beaded rain on a glossy car, doomed to be erased forever by wind.

I'll listen, but I won't _hear_.

Then I will say words of my own.

Because oh, I have them.

So I follow his come-hither head gesture down a hall and down an elevator. As we walk, I _absorb_ Edward. His voice, his face, his smell. I soak him in desperately with all five senses. Because he and I, we don't have a lot of time. We've lived together in this little bubble.

And bubbles do nothing if not burst.

Even as we move, Edward is impossibly still. Sure, his body functions as it needs to, like when it swooshes out the hospital exit and slams car doors closed and grind-grinds the downshift. But despite the fact that they should, his movements don't betray nerves. He doesn't sigh or tap his fingers against the steering wheel or run his hand through his hair. He hardly blinks or breathes.

He just…sits.

And drives.

The words we need to create—they're not the type that bloom in a sterile hallway. They're the type that come to life away from civilization, preferably in some deserted forest somewhere. Surrounded by immutable trees, the only witnesses.

As Edward knows.

For that's exactly where he takes us.

He whips his little silver car out of the hospital parking lot, follows a highway north. I look out my window and watch the wind erase water from glass. Then the car cuts neatly off the road into a remote turnabout that Edward should have missed, it came out of nowhere.

I don't even wait for him to kill the engine before I'm up and out, trudging and tripping through undergrowth clawing at the confines of asphalt.

Oh look, we're in a remote forest. Alone. There's even wind. Though this time, the "wind" is following me. And there are other differences, too—significant ones.

In Forks, the forest was life. It was green and fragrant and pregnant with possibility. A world where potential myths and magic oozed from a tangle of mystery, where every mote of light was fairy dust.

Here, the forest is death. Withered leaves shed from balding trees and lie in broken heaps, playthings for worms. As I walk, a final leaf detaches from a spidery branch and falls, defeated, to join its kin. I watch its passing, see it settle in its grave.

_X_ marks the spot.

Stop right here, right where the leaf fell. _Crunch_, it goes under my boot.

It's perfect. This is a graveyard; words birthed here will be stillborn.

Edward blends with the trees, motionless, watching me. Not fidgeting, not pacing, just frozen. Unnatural. Like a deer that has sensed danger and stands poised, ready to flee. His impeccable face is still as smooth as ice, no hint of smile or frown. Just…nothing.

"Stop staring at me," I snap, brushing twigs from the fallen birch that will become my bench. In the time I swivel and sit, Edward has complied. He glares down at the carpet of decaying leaves instead, as if he could burst it into flame.

He opens his mouth. I see a flash of uneven teeth, the first imperfection I've seen. I see a pink tongue…

"Wait," I blurt. He looks up, expectant, mouth still open.

He's going to talk, but the words he needs to say are so…momentous that they would be like diving into Antarctica's ocean without—I don't know—acclimating first. Perhaps we should ease our toes into the freezing water.

"I have some…questions."

"Okay." He seems relieved.

Too bad I don't have my little red notebook. I have _pages_ of questions.

Start with the easy ones.

"Why is Dr. Cullen in New Hampshire?"

"Because I am here."

"Why are you in New Hampshire?"

"You know why."

Danger edges my voice. "Spell it out for me."

He lets go, sighs. "Because you are here."

"Why haven't I felt you?"

"I haven't been as…close. I've given you space. I shouldn't be here at all yet…I can't stay away."

"You're related to Carlisle?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"In what manner of speaking?"

"He…adopted me."

Yet they all share those eerily golden eyes.

"And you've been watching me ever since I was little?"

"Yes."

"Deliberately hiding yourself from me?"

"Yes."

"That was you in Port Angeles?"

"Yes."

"The tree house?"

"Yes."

I'm silent as the implications of his answers sink in. Edward is real. Edward saved my life. Edward has seen my face in the spectrum from laugh to cry. Edward has heard many—if not all—of my conversations.

Edward knows everything about me. Yet I know absolutely nothing about him. I'm sitting here, exposed to the bone. He's seen me at my best. He's seen me at my worst.

I've never seen him.

I've never seen the wind.

I need to say something. But I don't even know where to begin. Words are tofu to emotion's meat. Words are a poor substitute to express how I've felt, to paint a picture of loneliness, to illustrate the despair in Charlie's eyes when I lied to his face.

So I don't start with a word.

I start with a number.

"Seventeen," I say.

The number seeps into the silence.

"You lurked in the shadows of my life for _seventeen_ years. For seventeen years, I've felt you. In the corner of my periphery, igniting my sense of danger, of being watched, causing constant stress on my psyche. Causing me to constantly doubt whether or not I'm crazy."

"Actually," he says, eyes shifting to my feet instead of his own, "I found you when you were four."

I remember that my first memory of Edward is when I was four.

But I say, "Not helping."

He subsides.

"For seventeen years," I say, obstinately stressing the number because math is wholly unimportant at this point, "I've thought about what I'd say to you if you were ever standing in front of me. If you ever cared enough about me to show your face, to interact with me, to know me in a way that mattered.

"For seventeen years, I've thought of a million questions that I could ask you. Who are you? What do you want? Where did you come from?"

I pause, and he does not say a word. He knows better than to try and answer any of those inane questions. Those are not the questions that matter.

"But I think, now that I've heard what you have to say, I have only one question. And my question is simple."

A beat.

"Why now?"

Why is he showing himself to me now? Why not before? Why not when I needed him? Why not when I jumped off a cliff? Why not in a forest?

With that one question, I am giving him one chance. One chance to say the one thing I need to hear to make this all go away. To start the healing process of somehow moving past this. To get to know each other.

He says, "I couldn't let you die."

His answer confuses me. "Since when? I almost drowned."

Edward looks pained, perhaps at the thought of the things I did to try and get his attention. "I've saved you every time I could." His head is averted; he's kicking at leaves with the toe of his shoe. "But I can't keep saving you from yourself. I had to let you see me, just once. To let you know that I'm alive. To let you know that you're not crazy. So that you can move on. Live your life."

Just one problem with that.

He _is_ my life.

"But I…I need you." My voice is small.

"What I am…it's not good for you. You shouldn't need me."

This is it. We've come to the biggest question of all.

"What are you?"

I'm proud; my voice doesn't waver. I want to know the answer, so badly. I only hope that it's an answer worth knowing.

Edward goes very still again, squares his shoulders, and looks up at me for the first time.

"Seventeen," he says, voice rasping like my car's old engine.

As if that explains everything.

Why is he stealing my number? What does seventeen have to do with what he is?

He continues, "Seventeen is how old I was when I hunted for deer near a stream where a man hunted for fish. Seventeen when I watched a child, a little girl in a white dress, struggle to be just like her daddy. She didn't catch any fish that day. But she caught something else."

There's guilt in his voice. Shame. Disgust. What did that little girl catch? His attention? His desire? Is he trying to tell me that he's some kind of pedophile?

I think I'm going to be sick.

Could it be that Edward is no angel? No supernatural being of good and light, watching benevolently from the heavens? Was he watching for…other reasons?

Could it be that he's nothing but a man?

He doesn't look a day over seventeen. Yet here he is, telling me he's an almost-thirty stalker. My stomach revolts, and I grip myself even more tightly, trying to hold myself in.

I see it now—clearly. Edward is a lot older than he looks. He just has one of those boyish faces, you know? He works out. A lot. His family is rich, so he has money for some serious spy-games equipment, like high-powered binoculars and miniature cameras sprinkling my house like cockroaches.

Oh god, his _family_. They must be in on this. The Cullens with their perfect faces and perfect lives are the perfect little family of psychos. They pretend their son doesn't exist, set him free to do as he wishes.

He's my own private paparazzi.

And now we're alone in the woods.

I'm standing on my own grave.

Definitely going to be sick.

I'm thinking about buried bones and blood and self-defense and why, oh why, don't I carry pepper spray around my neck?

But before I can bolt, before I can scream, he continues, "Seventeen is also how old I was when I was dying from the Spanish Influenza."

His words are millennia from where my mind has taken me. His words, his voice, his face, they shock me back to here and now and _Edward_.

This is Edward.

I've never been afraid of him.

"Seventeen when I became so feeble I could no longer play the Steinway that had been in my family for generations. Seventeen when I watched my parents cut the cord that bound them to this earth and me—first my father, then my mother."

I don't…I can't…

"Seventeen is what my mother was thinking when she made a final, desperate plea to a man she thought was an angel."

Never a good idea to mistake people for angels.

"Seventeen is when that angel turned me into his own personal demon. Seventeen is when I died."

Um.

"But you see, Bella," he says, his eyes burning into mine for the first time. "Seventeen is also when I came _alive_. Seventeen is when found you."

This is…

This is…

Not what I was expecting. Edward goes and tells me that he died back when the Spanish Influenza could actually kill you?

And they think _I'm_ crazy.

I'd had so many theories about Edward. My little red notebook contains a three-page list of potential mythological beings. Somehow, this was never one of them. I had only written down the good ones. I had shied away from the monsters.

I know what he thinks he is. It isn't hard to guess.

The cold skin, the eerie eyes, the blood. The immortality.

Seventeen forever.

I start smiling. There's nothing else I can do.

"You think you're a _vampire_?"

Now chuckling.

"You think you're a vampire who goes around saving little girls for kicks?"

Now full-out laughing.

"Is that why you licked my blood?"

Now I might be hysterical.

"How did you pull off the whole 'not reflected in mirrors' thing? No wait, I know. More mirrors. That's how they do it in movies, right?"

"No," Edward scowls, "it's because I don't reflect in mirrors."

"Riiiiight. And isn't that sun I see there up in the sky? How is it that you're prancing about in it?"

And I'm clutching my belly and laughing and laughing and laughing.

Right up until the point where Edward stalks over and palms the nearest sapling. I perk up to watch whatever nonsense he's about to pull.

Turns out, he's about to pull the tree.

Because he, um, uproots it.

My turn to be very, very still.

I'm all eyes.

He holds the birch like a broom, its roots perfect for sweeping away leaves. And then he winds up and chucks the tree like a javelin over our heads, where it disappears into faraway foliage with much snapping and crashing and scurrying of small animals.

This is me: …

This is Edward: …

I stare at Edward.

Edward stares at me.

I'm all, "But…but…but…"

Edward's all stoic.

"But…the sun…"

He finds a patch of it peeking through the clouds and shoves his fist into its rays. His skin lights up like a disco ball at the roller rink that Alice used to drag me to. He waggles his fingers long enough to show me that they are _not_ going to become barbequed brisket.

They do, however, make a bit of a _snap, crackle, pop_.

Then he pulls out and plunks his hands back in his pockets.

And he waits.

And that's about the point where things get kinda hazy. After all, in the space of a few hours, I've threatened to kill myself, have broken my hand, been carried on air, become nauseated at the idea of my own Peeping Tom, and have watched a person I've never seen before do things I've never seen before.

Vampire.

He's a vampire.

That's better than pedophiliac stalker.

I think.

"Okay," I say. "This doesn't change anything."

And it really doesn't.

"So you're a vampire. So you're super strong and super fast and super sparkly. That doesn't impress me. Am I supposed to roll over and forgive you because you could decapitate me by flicking my forehead?"

"No." Edward seems horrified. "I don't want you to forgive me. And I would never, ever do anything to hurt you."

Not physically, at least.

"You don't _want_ me to forgive you?"

"No. What I've done to you…it's beyond reprehensible. I'm beyond forgiveness."

"Then why did you do it? Why didn't you just…talk to me?"

He's quiet, contemplative, as though he's asked himself that very question. "Because we're both seventeen. But only one of us is supposed to be. For you, seventeen is how many years ago you were born. Seventeen is what you'll be once and then never again. Seventeen is how many years I've let you live, protecting you from your fellow man and yourself. Seventeen is how many years I've protected you—from _me_."

"But why? Why didn't you just leave? Live your own life?"

I don't know much about vampires, but I do know that they're not famous for their compassion, their morals, their interest in mortals.

His answer is three words, the merest whisper of wind.

_The_ three words.

The three words I had hoped Edward would say. The three words that I thought could make this all go away, could calm the anger threatening to explode my heart like a grenade. The three words that I had wanted to hear more than anything in the world.

You know which three.

But now that I've heard them, I can't believe them.

Vampires, they don't love.

"No," I say. "You don't."

"What?" Edward frowns, eyelashes a'flutter.

"You don't love me. You can't possibly. When you love someone, you show it. You don't stand passively by while life happens to them. You talk to the person, you laugh with the person, you cry with the person. You put that person above yourself."

This is my speech, the one I've researched the heck out of and read all about in tomes of psychology textbooks. Of course, the textbooks say nothing of vampires, but I presume the basic tenets are still true.

"Love is a verb. It's not a noun. It's not a feeling you get when you look at me. It's not your heart pounding or your skin glowing or your testosterone pumping. It's what you _do._ And nothing you've _done_ has been in the language of love."

Edward says, "You say that what I've done has not been out of love. But I say that greater love has no one than this. That I've laid down my life for you, as your friend. Your imaginary friend. Nothing more."

Nothing more.

He doesn't want me.

He brought me here to say goodbye.

I take a deep breath.

"You've watched me while I've slept. You've spied on my private conversations. You've seen me stumble and bumble through life. Heck, you've probably seen me naked. You are the most sick, most twisted creature I have ever known. I'd like to say that you're the most sick, most twisted person I've ever met. But I've never met you. And you're _not_ a person."

In my dreams, in my fantasies since that fateful day in another forest when I stood laying it all down for him, screaming at the top of my lungs, I had thought about telling him these things a thousand times. Every day for years.

Now I'm getting to say them. And I'm not feeling quite like I thought I would. In my dreams, I wasn't having to look him in the face. That gloriously sad, vampire-pretty face.

Yet I press on. "You're not a person. You're a monster."

The monster's eyes flicker; the merest puff will extinguish their life.

"Monster," I whisper. "This is the last time you will ever see me."

And the monster's golden eyes burn out. A part of me burns with them. But I press on.

"Do you understand?" I demand.

The monster nods, eyes dropping away to his feet.

As I leave that graveyard, stumbling and bumbling my way toward home, I can't help but look back for a statue, slowly crumbling to dust.

But Edward is gone.

* * *

Edward Cullen's review of this chapter: Life. Love. Meaning. Over.


	16. Thaw

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

Somehow, I extricate myself from the clawing branches of those woods. Somehow, I thumbs-up my way home. I'm breaking all kinds of Charlie rules—don't follow strange men into the woods, don't hitchhike, don't speak to imaginary friends named Edward.

Don't care.

One day passes.

Then two.

Then three.

Those first days, I hurt. Like something crucial has been extracted from my life. Wisdom teeth. My appendix. A limb. I'm bruised. I ache. It's all I can do to get out of bed in the morning, go to class, go to work, come home. I'm sure I do these things, but no memories stick. My thoughts have scattered like sand in the wind. I hear the neighbor's cats, the dogs, even crickets, and it's too loud to sleep.

I thought I didn't have anything to live for before.

I was wrong.

After the third day, it finally sinks in.

Edward is a bloody sucking _vampire_.

I rent every vampire movie I can get my hands on. I hole up in the den and I watch vampires seduce virgins, yaw dripping fangs, and hang from ceilings. I watch vampires get interviewed, burned, staked. I see vampires in the underworld, in New York, and in space.

Rosalie walks by enough to notice the theme, sticks her head in, says, "I'd make a _sick_ vampire."

If by _sick_ she means awesome, then yes. She's beauty on the inside, ferocity beneath. She watches over my shoulder for a while but doesn't stay. Somehow, she seems to understand this is something I need to do alone.

I keep watching.

Through it all, I see blood, blood, blood.

Nowhere do I see Edward. I try to picture Edward's face. Edward in a rich black cape. Edward preying on innocent young girls. Edward with blood smeared on his chin.

I can't see it.

Edward's face doesn't belong in that world of nightmares and fear.

Sometimes late at night, when I'm deep under my covers, I whisper, "Edward."

He doesn't respond.

He's gone.

I should be happy.

I should feel safe.

* * *

Weeks pass. My hands heal. My heart doesn't. I'm restless, a migratory bird that has delayed in its yearly pilgrimage. Everything around me is growing, changing, leaving me behind. Life begins to peek from winter hidey-holes and for once, I don't mind the green. It's better than no color at all.

I'm on my stomach on my bed, not doing the homework splashed across the quilt, when I realize that I'm ready.

Ready to move, ready to shake, ready to do _some_thing.

I need to talk to someone. (Oh, how Renee would love to hear me say those words.)

I think of Alice. I think of Rosalie. I even think of Carlisle. After all, I know where his office is now. And he said that we would talk soon. But Alice is connected to this in some way that's not clear, Rosalie shouldn't be connected to this, and Carlisle…

Carlisle's loyalties seem blurred. Vampire, yet doctor; my brain can't superimpose the two images.

So I pick up my phone and hit the speed-dial for home. It's been too long—several weeks at least.

Charlie answers on the first ring.

"What're you doing?" I ask, my standard greeting.

"Waiting for you to call," he answers. As always.

It's good to hear his voice. We shorthand small talk the way only socially deficient people can do.

"How's Renee?"

"Out at some shindig," he says, but what he means is _here. She's still here_.

"Didn't make you go?" I tease.

"Thankfully, no. It's some chick thing," he grumps, but I know that he's smiling. A tight smile, a wary smile, but it's there. Against all odds, Renee is still in Forks. But I'm not holding my breath that she'll stay.

"And Billy?"

"Still dancing."

"Station?"

"Usual."

"Trouble?"

"Hiker unearthed a bear and cubs."

"Anyone hurt?"

"No. Maced the heck out of the mama."

We're quiet for a moment. Comfortable.

"Speaking of bears," he says, and I sit up straight in my bed because his tone is different.

"Yes?" I'm wary.

"Have I ever told you the story about the Papa Bear?"

This is not part of the script. The last several times I've called, Renee had already jumped on the other line by this point. Maybe Charlie is taking advantage of her absence.

I fumble, "I remember a story about a Mama Bear…"

"No, that's different. Completely different bear. Different story. Not the same." Charlie is emphatic.

Uh…

"Then no."

"This story is about a Papa Bear."

"Okay…" Not sure where he's going with this.

"Sometimes, Papa Bears get very scared for their baby bears, and, in an effort to protect them, they have to get up on their hind legs and roar and beat their chests so that the danger will go away."

Words fail me.

I know exactly where he's going with this.

"And sometimes," he continues, "the noise is so loud and the Papa Bear looks so angry that the baby bears might think that he's mad at them. But he's really not."

"Okay."

"Also," he says, "Papa Bears don't tell baby bears enough that they love them. You know, because they can't…" I can almost see him palming the back of his neck awkwardly "…speak."

"Right."

Silence simmers.

"Just thought you should know that," he says, solemn.

It's official. Charlie is _horrible_ at father/daughter talks. But it's okay. Because he's great at being a father.

We're winding down, sparse words exhausted, so I tell him I'd better go.

"And dad?" I say.

"Yeah?"

"Love you, too."

As I hang up, I hear him catch his breath, like he's done the two times in my life I've seen him cry.

I stare down at my phone, fighting my own tears, my insides rosy pink. Funny how a simple phone call can do that. My father has forgiven me. My father loves me. He never hated me at all, not once. Even after I lied to his face. Even after I disappointed him.

I feel loved. I feel whole. I feel like I could soar on the breeze I can see ruffling the leaves outside. This feeling, I want to pass it on, to share it with someone.

My phone stares at me from the bed, illuminated screen still ready for action.

I know what I should do. I know _exactly_ what I should do.

Pick it back up and dial a new number.

It rings and rings until a pleasant voice drops the bottom out of my stomach. "Cullen residence."

I'm _this _close to hanging up. My thumb worries the End button below my mouth, but I force the words out. Six little words, but they are oh so important.

"May I speak with Edward, please?"

A pause.

"I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number. No one by that name lives here."

Ha.

Hahahahahahahahahahaha

"Dr. Cullen, it's Bella."

Another pause during which I can almost hear him smile.

"In that case, one moment," he says.

Funny he didn't recognize my voice. Guess vampires aren't perfect. It's significantly less than a moment when the phone changes hands.

"Edward Cullen speaking."

Look at him try to pretend he doesn't know it's me. As if he'd be receiving a call from anyone else.

"It's me," I say.

_He_ recognizes my voice.

"How did you get this number?" Under other circumstances, the words could have seemed rude. But the controlled, careful way in which Edward says them implies something else. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was out of breath.

"Googled it."

"It's unlisted," he says dryly.

"I am a Google genius."

"I did not know this."

"I'm surprised to hear that. What with your eyeballs glued to the Bella Reality Show."

There's a noise not unlike choking.

"Too soon?" I deadpan.

"Not that…it's just…you're _teasing_ me." He's shocked.

"Sorta."

"You're speaking to me."

"I am." I'm suddenly uncomfortable. I hadn't thought this far ahead. Well, at least I'm not breaking my own rule. Edward's not _seeing_ me right now.

"Is there something I can do for you?"

"No."

"Any particular reason you're calling?"

"No."

"Okay."

Uncomfortable silence settles, the complete opposite of my conversation with Charlie. I suppose that's fair. Given that my feelings toward Edward are…different.

"Where have you been?" I ask.

"In my room."

"Doing what?"

He's shifty. "Sitting."

"Reading?"

"No."

"Listening to music?"

"No."

"Writing?"

"No."

"Just sitting?"

"Yes."

I picture Edward curled into himself in the corner of his room, feline eyes watching shadows travel the wall. I can see it. Sounds like me, actually. You tell yourself that you're going to be set free when the sick psycho stops stalking you, but it doesn't always work that way.

"Sitting in the bat cave?"

He laughs, but it's air deflating from a balloon. "Pretty much."

"Okay."

We're quiet again.

"Edward," I say suddenly. "I need to know one thing."

And I do.

"Anything."

In my mind, I see blood, blood, blood.

"Do you drink it? Blood, I mean."

I already know the answer. I've seen him do it, the day I injured myself.

"Yes," he whispers. I think he's turned his head away from the phone, ashamed.

My heart sinks. I wonder if he likes the blood of virgins best or if any ol' person will do. I wonder if he goes for the neck or the wrist or…other places.

Then he says, "But only the blood of animals."

Oh.

"And just that one little taste of yours. I couldn't help it, sorry."

So he's Brad Pitt.

Eating rats is better than eating people any day.

It's a start.

* * *

At first, nothing is different. I don't call Edward again; he doesn't call me. I don't feel him watching me, and there are definitely mice in these walls.

But I've broken the ice. I've planted a seed.

You plant this seed and then even when you're not looking, it's growing and growing until suddenly roses are blooming. That's how it is.

I look up one day and smell the metaphysical blood-red roses that represent this "thing" between Edward and me. It's not a relationship—how could it be?—but it's something. Something pulsing and living and just waiting to be reached out and plucked.

I look up one day and see Spring. The tree outside my window has gone from bones to bloom.

This is not a time to be in. It's a time to be out.

So out I go.

At first, I miss the turnoff, it's so overgrown with leaves and grass. An awkward five-point turn later, Rosalie's car nudges carefully into the spot where a silver Volvo had sat. The woods are almost unrecognizable, dipped in green silk. I pick my way through this alien land, hoping I can find a clearing.

The leaves that fell over winter have mulched into dark, fertile earth shooting with green. Eventually, the trees part, branches ushering me forward.

Is this the right place? Yes, here's the clearing. Here's the ragged hole where a birch should have been.

Now that I'm out, now that I'm here, I'm not quite sure what to do.

Third time's the charm.

"Edward," I say.

"Edward," I say, loud.

"Edward!" I say, loudest.

Then I wait.

If he does as I asked, he will leave me here in a forest, shouting at the top of my lungs. He will be nowhere near to hear my cry.

Wind stirs the forest floor into a cyclone of leaves, me the vortex. Edward appears, tree trunks his doorway to my world.

He came.

I'd told him not to.

Sometimes, when you love someone, you don't always do what they say. You do what they _need_. Edward stands, looking at me carefully, intently, as though trying to memorize something he'll only get to see once.

I frown. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't stalk me anymore."

"I'm not, I swear." He looks innocent. Actually, no; he looks sinfully windswept, but his expression seems innocent.

"How did you know where I was?"

"My ears are finely attuned to your voice."

Superhearing seems kinda neat…until I contemplate repercussions.

"Have you been listening to my conversations these past weeks?"

"No." He looks pained. "I've done as you asked." _Demanded_. "I've stayed away."

"Good," I say, and I mean it. "I changed my mind."

"About what?" He steps nearer but stops, wary.

"We didn't do it right."

"Do what right?"

"Us."

I've thought about this long. I've thought about this hard. And in all that thinking, I've come up with the one way that I think will make this right.

Obviously, things can't stay the same. Edward can't go back to rocking by my bed at night. I can't go back to talking to myself in my room, knowing that someone is listening. I can't fall out of tree houses and expect not to break my neck.

When I didn't know he was real, I could pretend. I could pretend that what we were doing was normal, that everything was okay. That it could last forever.

But it can't.

Such co-dependence is not healthy.

Not for me. Not for him.

I couldn't make this up; go take a psych class.

He needs to learn to live without me.

And I without him.

If we can't live successfully apart, we won't make it together. We will eat at each other and drain each other until there's nothing left but our bones. Because of me, Edward's eternal life has been on pause. He's been a gargoyle so long—ever watching, ever protecting—he's forgotten how to be a man.

Things between us can never be the same.

But.

I want there to be a thing between us.

He's standing there watching me, waiting for me. Like he's always done. For the first time, I see life in his face. His eyes are bright, expectant. He looks warm, touchable.

So I take a step forward.

One small step.

Reach up…

up and up and up

…and pluck a bronze leaf from his hair.

"Oh," he says.

I drop the leaf, and it drifts to the ground.

Before I can step back, he raises his own hand. A single, cold finger blazes warmth down my palm.

"How's your hand?"

He strokes it as delicately as if it's made of butterfly wings. The feel of his finger, feather-soft when it could otherwise be a force of nature, is sublime.

"It's better," I breathe.

He's staring, transfixed at the point of his skin touching mine. His touch is so distracting, I almost forget that I have something to say.

But it's important.

"I want you to court me."

"Court you?" His gaze snaps to mine, hand dropping away.

"Yes. To court, like to woo, to seek another's affections, to—"

"I know what courting is." His voice is flat.

"Good. Because I want to take it super slow. Glaciers melting in the dead of night slow. Let's do this right."

"You want me to court you?" He seems stuck on this whole courting thing.

"Yes."

"Does that mean I get to…_see_ you?"

"Yes."

That cold, quiet Edward from earlier? That wasn't Edward at all. That was Edward dead. That was Edward afraid. That was Edward not allowing himself the privilege of hope.

This Edward, well.

This Edward is the sun crystallizing on fields of virgin snow. Sprinkling stars like confetti in a remote sky. Warm rain on an upturned face.

Radiant, he extends a strong yet elegant hand.

"Then allow me to introduce myself. I'm Edward Cullen." And he bends from the waist and kisses me, right on a freshly healed knuckle.

Like gifts, forgiveness is even better to give than receive.

* * *

**Note: **miaokuancha's purity and poetry knows no bounds. This one's for her.


	17. Courtship

**-| Glitch **_continues _**|-**

I think I'm level-headed. I think I'm so smart.

I am the stupidest person alive.

I proposed a courtship to a proven obsessive vampire who grew up when courting was all the rage. Asking Edward to court me is like giving a heroin addict an intravenous needle.

He throws himself into the Courtship of Bella Swan as single-mindedly as he did The Stalking of the Same. He opens my car door. He "calls" on me in his living room, chaperoned by a pair of delighted parents. We perambulate through his neighborhood, my hand on his arm. We even carry matching umbrellas, me to prevent my fair skin from burning in the sun, he to prevent the sun from burning his fair skin.

Turns out, that snap, crackle, pop that I'd heard—while not enough to burst him into flame—is a little uncomfortable.

The upside of courting?

Conversation. That's apparently all you're "allowed" to do while you court someone. Fortunately, we have not-quite seventeen years' worth to catch up on.

We talk, but we go slow. We start with frivolous things, from the shocking lack of mirrors in the Forks Medical Center to the physics involved in Edward knocking my copy of _Jane Eyre_ open to the first page bearing his name. We work up to more serious topics, like how vampires are supposed to keep their existence on the down-low and the fact that my Gran truly had schizophrenia. Carlisle tells me he reviewed her charts personally.

But we haven't yet worked up to the most serious thing of all—where Edward was the day I jumped from a cliff. Where he was the day I stood in the middle of a forest far from home, lost and alone, screaming at the top of my lungs.

I'm not sure I'm ready for the answer.

Not yet.

When weather permits, Edward meets me after my last class of the day and walks me home. Most days, we wend slowly past esteemed halls in which young minds have expanded for decades, talking about everything and nothing. Normally, we continue straight down the wide path, which eventually bifurcates down to the sidewalk where I live.

But not today.

Today, something is different.

Today, Edward stops and says, "I have something to show you." His eyes glint mischief, and he puts a hand on my back to direct my steps.

He escorts me away from the main campus, down a lesser-used dirt path. When the foot traffic dwindles and then disappears, Edward shifts behind me, cool hands rising to cover my eyes. "No peeking," he whispers against my neck. They're not kisses, but they're the closest he's come.

I walk blind, wholly trusting his nearness and him.

When we stop, I'm acutely aware of his presence against my back, his hands gentle on my face. He rarely touches me, so I luxuriate in the feeling while it lasts.

Then the curtain of his hands parts for the big reveal.

I almost can't breathe. "Beautiful."

And it really is. Edward has brought me to a simple path lined with trees. But these trees—they're not green. The sky bursts a cotton candy pink. And the smell…

"Cherry blossoms," he explains.

It's the smell of Spring, of life and new beginnings. And, quite possibly, of love.

Before I can ask him how he found this place, his arms are around me.

Touching me. Again.

"What are you…?"

He lifts me by the waist and tucks me into the nook of the nearest tree with a stern admonishment of "don't move." I clutch at smooth bark while he kicks off his shoes and balances effortlessly on a nearby branch.

Looking around, I see that he's transported me into our very own Candy Land.

He says, "Trees are even more beautiful when you're in them."

He's not referring to the generic "you."

He says, "This gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'pretty in pink.'"

He's not referring to the trees.

I blush from the warmth of his gaze, his cotton candy lips.

My blush doesn't help.

His eyes do that thing where they darken, sun setting below the earth.

The shift is so sudden, so erotic that I gasp.

The spell is broken; he looks away, out into the trees, fiddles with a twig. We're silent as the breeze gently caresses the boughs. I sit and soak it all in.

"Do they bother you?" Edward says at last.

"What?"

"My eyes."

The serious response would be too sappy, something about losing myself in said eyes. So I keep it light.

"Nah. I'm just glad they aren't green," I say. "I couldn't stare into green eyes all the time. We wouldn't have made it as a couple."

The corner of his mouth turns. "Before I became a vampire, my eyes were green."

I stare into his once-green eyes, wondering if I'm going to be able to handle the fact that, behind their veneer of amber, they had once been the color of fresh boogers. After much contemplation, I decide that their current delectable color more than makes up for it. Everything is better dipped in butter, including Edward's eyes.

"Then it's a good thing Carlisle changed you into a vampire."

"I never in a million years—or at least a hundred—thought I would say this," Edward says slowly, "but yes, it _is_ a very good thing."

I'm surprised that the man who considers himself a monster has agreed with me. "Why's that?"

"If he hadn't, I wouldn't have met you."

Gah.

Edward and his little romanticisms. Methinks he put all that solitary time he's spent stalking me to good use. Speaking of which…

"What in the world did you do to pass the time while you were stalking me?"

"Thought. Composed music. Thought some more."

"Didn't that get a little boring?"

He shrugs. "For a vampire, everything is boring. Watching you has actually been the highlight of my century."

"I can't imagine what talking to me must be, then."

"Talking to you is the zenith of my existence."

I repeat: Gah.

Forget butter-dipped eyes; Edward has a butter-dipped tongue. I wonder if it tastes as good as it sounds.

Alone in this faerie world, he tells me his side of our story. Of the first day he saw me. The first time I mumbled his name in my sleep. The first time he tried to leave me.

"You tried to leave me?"

"Many times. Carlisle was livid at what I was doing to you. To myself."

"What did he want you to do instead?"

"Leave you alone. If I wanted to let you live your life, I should have let you live your life."

Carlisle was right but oh. The idea of life without Edward…

"Why didn't you listen to Carlisle?"

"I wanted to."

"What happened?"

Edward frowns. "Your bicycle happened."

Ah. Charlie was one of those "minimal interference" dads. His idea of teaching a kid to swim was dropping them into the deep end of a pool. This is why I never learned to swim. So when it came time to learn to ride the bike, he plopped me on it and gave a little shove. Disaster involving a set of metal trash cans ensued. I always wondered how I'd managed not to crack my skull.

"Then Port Angeles happened," Edward continues. "Then the tree house. And oh god, then you got your driver's license." He looks absolutely horrified. "Every time I'd convince myself that you'd be fine, that you wouldn't fall down and break your neck the moment I left, you'd fall down and nearly break your neck. You'd almost get mugged, you'd almost get hit by a car, you'd almost get mauled by a Rottweiler down the street."

I shudder. I had never seen Rocky the Rottweiler again. Charlie told me that he had gone to live in the country on a doggy farm.

Charlie has told me a lot of strange things involving animals.

"You didn't always save me," I pointed out.

Edward doesn't reply immediately, merely hoists himself to a higher branch.

"What about the cliff-diving incident? Were you there, in the water, about to save me if Jacob didn't?"

"No," he says carefully, pausing in a crouch.

"Why not?"

"We have an…understanding with the Quileute. We respect the boundaries of their land. I had to trust that Jacob would take care of you."

And he had.

"Where were you?"

"As close as I could get. But it wasn't close enough. It was agony, knowing you were somewhere I couldn't see or even hear."

The image pleases me. "Good. Now you know how I felt all those years."

I watch his feet disappear somewhere above my head.

"Jacob tried to kiss me." I don't know why I throw this out. I just do.

The tree shivers. Blossoms flutter like butterflies.

"Did you let him?" Even though he's spider-monkeying up there somewhere, I can hear his tone go all stiff and formal. Preparing himself, I've come to understand.

"I wanted to."

"But…?"

I shrug. "He wasn't you."

When Edward climbs back down, he brings a sun-kissed cherry blossom and a soft smile. I take his offering and bring it to my nose. As he watches the movement, I draw the velvet petals across my lips.

He looks down at my lips, then up at me. Down at the lips, then back at me.

He doesn't move.

So I do.

Standing carefully, I step to his branch, planting my feet in the space between his. His eyes track my every move, and his hands hover, ready to steady me if I slip. But he doesn't touch.

I reach up, up and up, and pluck a wayward cherry blossom from his hair, which seems to attract errant flora.

"Oh," he says, but it's more of a shaky sigh.

We're caged between two supporting tree limbs, my feet planted on either side of his.

"Kiss me," I say.

He wants to—I can see that—but still he doesn't move.

"Come on. One little kiss."

He seems torn. Only then does it occur to me what I might be asking.

"Oh. Is it too hard? You being a vampire and all?"

"No, that's not it," he mumbles.

"What, my blood doesn't call to you?"

"It does. But I've had years to inure myself to your scent."

"Then what's the problem?"

If he were human, the look on his face would be accentuated by a blush. Edward is _embarrassed_. For some reason, this delights me.

"Don't tell me that you're a vampire _and_ a prude?"

"Well…"

"How oxymoron of you."

"I just wasn't planning on kissing you until year two," he blurts.

"I'm sorry…what?"

"I thought you knew. Courtships last at least three years."

Three _years_? I've created a monster. Correction, I've unleashed a monster. Monsters have no right to be so pretty.

Fortunately, I have a solution.

If he won't kiss me, then I'll just have to kiss him. He trembles like a little lamb as I lean in. But he doesn't move, doesn't pull away.

I'm close enough to see the striations in his irises. Then I'm close enough to feel his breath. And then…

I knew it.

He does taste good.

The kiss breaks the dam. Before, he barely touched me. Now, he can't seem to stop. The one little kiss turns into more—lots more. Together, we push the zenith of Edward's existence to new heights.

But what goes up must come down.

Later, as we sit in our tree (this time not K-I-S-S-I-N-G), he tells me at last about the woods near my house. How the agony in my voice, the blood nearly unraveled his tenuous sanity along with mine. He'd had to twine himself around a tree to prevent himself from taking even a single step.

If he'd come to me, if he'd cracked even a single twig, the ending was always the same: cold ruby eyes fluttering open after endless hours of fire.

But if he stayed, if he leached himself to the tree until I was spent, I would live.

"How did you _know_?"

Alice has _seen_ it. Alice is only human; she doesn't always know what she sees, doesn't always remember her dreams. But he does. He spent as much time watching Alice sleep as he did me. Alice's gift is more constant than she knows. Her human mind is but a fickle antenna in the tempest of her gift.

Night brought Edward visions of me dressed in white, pledging myself to a groom whose identity no longer matters. He watched me bounce babies on my knee. Watched my hair streak gray and my laugh lines deepen. Saw Future Me on a porch swing surrounded by a second generation of younglings with my brown eyes.

"And now?" I whisper against his cheek. "What does Alice see now?"

He doesn't know yet; his eyes are dark, this time for a different reason. I have a sneaking suspicion that Alice is seeing rubies, if I have any say in the matter.

But for now, we have a three-year courtship to attend to.

* * *

Spring Break, I introduce Edward to my parents. Thanks to Edward, I _can_ introduce him to parents plural.

"Forks grew on me," Renee says from where she's wrapped around a glowing Charlie's waist. "It's just so unbelievably _green_, you know?"

Edward goes by Masen now. He and Carlisle concocted an elaborate back story, replete with a trail of detailed records that Charlie will no doubt thoroughly investigate. My contribution was to suggest that Masen play baseball for Princeton.

"Charlie will eat that up," I say. But really, I just like the idea of Edward in those tight little pants.

We're working on our "me time." Being alone is not easy for either of us, given our history, but we're getting better at it. I read a lot of books. Edward composes me a new song, one that's less melancholic than the one I'd heard through the trees that day.

And when we come back together, it's good.

Great, even.

Fine, fine. You want the whole truth and nothing but the truth? It's out of this world. I don't think anything could make this better.

But then Edward says something that does.

We're sitting on my bed (i.e., tangled in each other's arms). Edward came over to (allegedly) help me with my American History homework, given that he lived through most of it. We, um, haven't started yet. He may have arrived three hours ago.

"I almost forgot. Carlisle and Esme want us to come for 'dinner' Thursday."

I smile because I know why it slipped his mind.

"What's the occasion?"

"They'd like to introduce us to someone."

"Another you-know-what?" I stage-whisper.

"Yes," Edward stage-whispers back.

"Who?"

"His name is Jasper."

"You know someone named Jasper?" I say faintly.

"I will shortly." And Edward smiles a small smile. "He wandered across the Canada border recently. Seemed lost, so Carlisle took him in."

"Has he ever been to Forks?"

"Not yet." Now his eyes are dancing. "I think a visit to Forks is in order, though. A relaxing summer vacation, perhaps?"

Huh.

Would you look at that.

Alice and I had both been right all along. I really _can_ see dead people. Alice really _can_ see the future. And there had never really been a glitch in my brain after all.

Right now, I can see the future myself. My future involves me telling Alice a story that will put the dance back in her step, the color back in her cheeks, and the zest back in her life. My future involves introducing her to a vampire with a delightful Southern drawl.

And Alice will tell him, "You've kept me waiting."

But as for my present, I plan on enjoying it to its fullest. My present involves lots of necking, as it were, with my very own vampire.

[Ad infinitum]

* * *

**Final note:** This story was tangentially inspired by _The Giving Tree_, by Shel Silverstein.


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